Mirrors
by Emihn
Summary: Grissom, Sara, and Brass confront a brutal serial killer, and ghosts from their own pasts. New paths are revealed; old alliances are strained. Where will all of this leave them? Spoilers for all seasons.
1. Highly Sadistic

Branches rose above him in slender jagged lines, silhouetted darkly against the growing twilight. Behind the harsh filigree, the sky melted from gold to sage to smoke blue, with the sun still burning in the west. The warm golden light cast tree-shadows in entangled wires across his back, and a gentle glow on one side of his weathered face. He glanced up at the canopy, light flashing in his dark blue eyes. Glimmers of rain in sleek crystal spheres still hung from a few leaves. There would be no footprints or treads, and probably no trace.

His gaze fell slowly to the dead woman on the ground before him. She was young and slender, her body shrouded in his shadow, except her splayed blonde hair like fallen gold. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he rubbed his left temple. He had seen much death, but the sorrow and injustice in the back of his mind had never completely gone away. It lurked there, whispering in his ear at each new face, each new life taken. It was part of being human.

He shifted slightly at underbrush crunching to his right, and a long shadow falling beside his in a familiar silhouette. "A motorist found her," he said in a low, somber voice, without turning. "Pulled over, noticed the body, called 911." He sighed, flexing his fingers habitually. "No ID—she's a Jane Doe." Glancing to his right, he added, "You gonna call it, Gil?"

Gil Grissom tilted his head, sun glinting in his clear blue eyes. Carefully he walked around to the other side of the body and squatted beside it, harsh tree-shadows weaving over his quiet, inquisitive expression. With a sensitive gloved hand, he drew back part of her long hair. "Ligature," he commented, pointing to the deep red and purple marks around her neck. "She was strangled." Grissom let her hair fall, studying the body as a whole. The woman was wearing only a bra and underwear, her body bruised and cut. "She took a beating before she died." He tilted his head, forehead creasing slightly. "Lividity suggests she was killed somewhere else, probably no more than a few hours ago."

Captain Jim Brass raised an eyebrow with an understanding nod. "Body dump."

"Well, it rained in the meantime, so any shoeprints or tire treads are gone."

"I'll bet the killer was counting on that." Brass glanced sideways at a faint noise, his movements always alert and observant in the field. "Sexual assault?"

"Most likely," Grissom nodded, sun catching in his greying hair as he leaned over the body. "No ligature marks on the wrists."

"Drugged, maybe? Or just overpowered?"

"Or she was somewhere where she couldn't get away." Something on the woman's neck caught his eye. "Jim, what do you make of this?"

Brass leaned forward, long overcoat skimming the ground. He shook his head, frowning.

"Four small vertical marks, parallel to each other, evenly spaced," Grissom remarked. "They look like cuts, made with some kind of small, sharp instrument."

"Significance?"

"It's one of those odd clues," Grissom shrugged.

"Right," Brass nodded, straightening with a sigh. "It could mean nothing—"

"—or everything."

* * *

Floodlights split the darkness with their cold white glare, sending shadows scattering in angular chaos. Her skin shone olive-white in the artificial light, freckles like darkened stars spattered against a fading sky. Slowly her soft brown eyes traced the space within the yellow tape's stark finality. She swung her flashlight in a low arc, its clear beacon following her gaze across branches, leaves and earth.

"Find anything, Sara?"

Sara Sidle glanced over her left shoulder at Grissom, brown hair tossed in a gentle wave. "I've got absolutely nothing. Any evidence here washed away in the rain."

Grissom shrugged, floodlights sharpening his intelligent features. "The killer always leaves something behind," he said quietly.

"Well, this one only left a dead body." Sara shut off her flashlight with a disappointed click. "There's nothing here. I'm going back to the lab to see if we can come up with an ID."

"Okay," he nodded. "Coroner's waiting for me, anyway. Hopefully we'll find DNA from the killer."

Sara turned to face him fully, shadows flowing around her feet in a dark train. "What are you thinking? Single incident, random attack?" Her voice lowered slightly. "Serial?"

"The evidence hasn't told me yet," Grissom said dispassionately. "This isn't even our primary crime scene—this is just where the body was dumped."

"Yeah," Sara nodded, arms folded across her slim figure. Silence stained the cool, wounded night.

Grissom studied her vaguely, noting her pensive expression and the shadows beneath her eyes. She had been quiet and solemn since her return to the lab, but at least she was not being confrontational. Like any mood, it would pass. "Well, see you at the lab," he shrugged, turning and walking toward the road.

Sara glanced after him, raising an eyebrow. He was withdrawn again, but she supposed she should not have expected anything different. It was an endless cycle, back and forth like a cold pendulum. It never changed.

Taking a deep breath, she forced her emotions down to a silent place within her, a place of shadow behind one-way glass.

* * *

"Cause of death?"

"Asphyxia," Dr. Robbins stated, "more specifically, strangulation. The marks on her neck and petechial hemorrhaging tell the story." He gestured to the deep bruises around her throat, their color contrasting darkly with the autopsy room's cold sterility. "The ligature left distinctive bruising."

Grissom leaned closer to the body, examining the pattern on her skin. "Small round marks, lined up evenly. A larger square mark." He thought for a moment, then nodded in understanding. "The killer used a belt."

"That's what I was thinking," Robbins agreed. "She's also abnormally thin."

"Anorexic?"

The coroner shook his head. "None of the signs of an eating disorder are present. She hadn't eaten much in about a week, though."

Grissom glanced up, frowning. "So she was starved. By the killer?"

"It's certainly possible. The bruises and cuts all over her body clearly show that she was abused or tortured before her death."

"Did you process for sexual assault?"

Robbins nodded. "Severe bruising and internal tears definitely indicate a violent rape. I found no semen, though."

"Object rape."

"Seems like it, but I can't determine what was used. No trace from it was left during the attack. Considering the pattern of bruising, it could have been any rounded, blunt object." Robbins sighed. "Whatever was used, the attack was brutal and prolonged, one of the worst I've seen."

"What about under her fingernails? Trace amounts of blood from her attacker?"

Robbins shook his head. "Already processed the scrapings. Nothing. There's no foreign DNA anywhere on the body."

Grissom straightened, shaking his head. "This killer is a ghost. We have no prints or hairs and no DNA."

"Hey." He turned to see Sara stride lightly into the room and stop beside the table. "Got an ID on our vic. Prints turned up nothing, but we found her in missing persons. Jamie Martin, age nineteen. She was a student at UNLV. Lived in an off-campus apartment with her roommate, who reported her missing a week ago."

"Odd," Grissom frowned. "She'd only been dead for three hours when we found her."

"Well, the roommate's been cleared, and it doesn't look like anyone else saw her since then."

"She _was_ tortured," Robbins commented.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "So he kept her alive for a week?"

"Why wait so long to kill her?" Sara wondered aloud.

"Guess he was taking his time," Grissom shrugged.

Robbins nodded. "It fits with the body. Kept barely alive for a week, worn down, tortured, raped, until he was finished with her."

"Highly sadistic." Grissom shook his head. "Well, this certainly didn't happen in the woods where we found her." He glanced up at Sara. "Which raises the question of where she's been for the past 168 hours."

"Hell," Sara replied bluntly, gazing at the pale, dead woman against gleaming metal.


	2. Girls Night In

Cloud-filtered morning sun shone through the police department's high windows, pooling in pale yellow shafts across the floor and upholstered seats. Dust floated lazily through the air, drifting in a faint gypsy gauze. The girl sat there, dark hair haloed in the cool light. She traced her finger absently across the cushion, the stain of sleeplessness and dried tears dimming her youthful face.

"Kristen Thomas, our vic's roommate," Brass said quietly, standing in the hallway facing the room's gridded glass wall. "Last one to have seen Jamie Martin alive, and the one who reported her missing."

Sara gazed at the girl over Brass' shoulder, her eyes grave. "Did she have any family?"

"Parents and a younger sister," Brass replied, glancing back at Sara with a solemn expression that mirrored her own. "They live in Oregon. We've already notified them." He sighed, weary shadows circling his dark blue eyes. "It's always a shame, but . . ."

"I know. When it's someone young and innocent, it always feels worse. People like that aren't meant to suffer." Her forehead creased, eyes at the edge of silent shadow.

"No one is _meant_ to suffer." Brass tilted his head slightly, noticing her darkened expression. Taking a deep breath, he smiled warmly for her sake. "You know, I think we both need a vacation."

Sara met his eyes again, shadow receding with a hint of her old smile. "Yeah. Right after this case."

"That's what all the CSIs say."

As they entered the room, the girl glanced up at then with a mixture of fear and sadness. Sara sat beside her, and Brass stood behind Sara, hand resting against the back of her seat.

"Kristen," Sara began quietly, "my name is Sara Sidle. I'm with the crime lab. You've already met Captain Brass. Thanks for coming in to talk with us."

Kristen Thomas looked up, green eyes round and sad. "I just want to help you. For Jamie."

"Thank you. Can you tell me what happened the last time you saw Jamie? The night you reported her missing?"

The girl nodded, glancing away into memory. "It was Thursday. I was going out to a club with a few of our friends. Girls' night out. We did it once a month, like a tradition. Jamie decided to stay home. She had a test the next day, so she was studying. She was smart, but she always had to study extra hard." Kristen paused for a moment, then went on. "I was out until after 1 A.M., maybe closer to 2. When I got back to the apartment, the door was unlocked and partly open. I went in, everything was dark. I looked everywhere. All her stuff, her purse, cellphone, everything was still there. But Jamie was gone." She took a ragged breath, head in her hands.

"I'm very sorry," Sara said gently, fighting back a tear of her own. Maybe she was not ready to deal with a case like this yet. Each word pounded at her, their force like weights pulling her slowly into a bottomless well. She was trying so hard, but empathy was too close to memory.

"Miss Thomas," Brass began, his low voice breaking into Sara's thoughts. She leaned back slightly, shutting the door in her mind, grasping for strength from his presence. His voice was firm but kind, its simple power calming her. "After you returned to the apartment, did you touch or move anything?"

Kristen shook her head. "No. I was too scared to even stay there. I went to stay with my friends on campus and called the police."

"May we send a team to examine the apartment? It could contain important evidence."

"Yes, that's fine."

"Okay," Brass nodded, then asked, "Did Jamie have any enemies, people she didn't get along with? Like a boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, that kind of thing?"

"Well, she'd been dating this guy Eric for a few weeks. Eric Anderson. He's on the football team. Met Jamie in English class. He seems nice."

Brass jotted down the name in his notebook. "Was she seeing anyone before that?"

Kristen nodded. "Shawn Miller. They'd been dating since sophomore year in high school. We all thought they might end up getting engaged, but they broke up like a month ago."

"How did he take it?"

"Kind of hard, I guess. I mean, they haven't spoken since then."

Sara glanced over her shoulder at Brass, who met her gaze with a knowing nod. It was a start. "Thank you very much for your help, Miss Thomas," he said quietly, sliding his notebook into his dark suit coat.

Sara looked back at the girl, allowing only compassion to peer through her eyes. "Kristen, I promise we'll do everything we can to find the person who did this."

Kristen nodded slowly, eyes lowered. "I can't believe this. Jamie's been my best friend since junior high. We did everything together. I just . . . I never thought this could happen."

Taking a deep breath, Sara said gently, "We never expect a tragedy to happen to us."

"We just have to do our best to get through it," Brass added quietly.

Kristen stood and wiped her eyes, then left without another word.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Brass gazed down at Sara, his forehead creased with concern. She was staring pensively across the room, features washed with pale sun. He thought she was like a lamp of thin porcelain, its weakened flame smoldering as it burned out. Once it had blazed with wildfire's freedom, fierce spirit tinged with joy and anger. The light was dimmed now, leaving behind a shell that could be broken with one breath. Beautiful fragility. Gently he laid his hand on her slender shoulder, as if he feared she would shatter.

Sara looked up at him, the concern in his eyes piercing into her clouded thoughts. "I'm fine," she said softly, in answer to his unspoken question.

"Okay." Brass smiled slightly to reassure her, but their eyes held the silent reality. They both knew it was a lie.

* * *

Grissom stepped into the darkened apartment, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the change in light. His mind captured its general state in a single meticulous sweep.

_Average student's apartment. Dorm furniture. Notebooks, glass of water, half-empty. Tilted lampshade. No immediately apparent signs of struggle._

He turned his head at a snapping noise to see Sara packing up her kit. "Um, where are you going?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "We have to process the scene."

Sara glanced up at him, her gaze cool. "I've been here for an hour, Grissom. Everything's done." She noticed his dress pants and sleek leather jacket. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere," he shrugged, still surveying the room.

Sara's mouth twitched as she returned her attention to her kit. She was not sure where he had been, but she knew exactly who he had been with. Rumors had been buzzing around the lab for weeks.

"So are you going to call it?" Grissom asked, not seeming to notice her reaction.

Turning to face the room, Sara began to visualize what had happened. "The victim was sitting on her couch, studying. No signs of forced entry, so either the door was unlocked or she let him in, suggesting that she knew her attacker. The killer grabbed her, bumped the lamp, broke a vase. Damage indicates she fought back briefly, but there's no blood. Since he had to get her out of here without the neighbors hearing, I'm thinking she was unconscious."

Grissom nodded. "There were no ligature marks or adhesive residue on her body to suggest that she was bound or gagged. Without some kind of restraint, the neighbors would have heard something."

"Right. But there was also no trauma to her head, like if she'd been knocked out. Maybe he strangled her just enough to make her unconscious."

"Well, the tox screen hasn't come back yet. Hemay have restrained her chemically."

"Because he needed to transport her somewhere else, where he raped and murdered her." Sara's forehead creased as she frowned. "Why not just tie or tape her up? Wouldn't duct tape over her mouth be easier than strangulation and drugs?"

Grissom glanced over the room, shaking his head. "I don't know. Maybe it's not about what's easy for this guy. Maybe he wanted her to fight him." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Or, since she was being transported somewhere, maybe he wanted to make sure she wouldn't know where she was. Could be either in case she escaped, or just to terrorize her."

"The killer had everything planned out, from the kidnapping to the murder." Sara shook her head grimly. "I've got nothing, Grissom. No blood, no prints, no tiretreads from a getaway vehicle. All we have on this guy is an M.O."

"No killer is that lucky, This guy knows something about evidence and not leaving it." Grissom shrugged. "Anyway, Brass is bringing in those two guys, so maybe we'll come up with something."

"Maybe." With a sigh, Sara picked up her kit and turned to the door. "Are you coming to P.D. after we drop this evidence off at the lab?"

"Oh, I can't right away," he said, shaking his head. "Sheriff wants to see me about some other case. I'll get there when I can."

Sara nodded silently, then turned to leave. She paused in the doorway and glanced back at Grissom, who was facing the room. Light from the hallway shone on the strong silhouette of his back, casting shadow in a black pool across the floor. She wondered how many times she had watched him, waiting for a word, a touch, a spark in his clear blue eyes.

_Pathetic_.

She recoiled sharply at the thought, a tremor of emotion twisting her face in a grimace. Taking a deep breath, she turned and left the apartment.


	3. Potential Perps

Brass glanced over the police report as he entered the interrogation room, rubbing his left temple. Homicide was busy as a termite in a timber-frame, and victims' families were constantly after him. They did not understand that he could not work miracles. Procedure, science, evidence—all of it was meaningless to them. All they strove for was justice, seeking it like moths toward light, not seeing the reality hidden in its blinding glow. He was left with these wounded people in violence's wake, and he knew that no fingerprint or scrap in a plastic bag could ever heal them.

Sighing, Brass dropped the papers on the table. He glanced up and was slightly surprised to see Sara standing by the wall, facing the high window, silent and still. Slowly he walked over and stood beside her. She was staring at the falling rain, drowned in her thoughts, shadowed expression dimmed in the steel-blue light. Her soft brown eyes mirrored the rain in smooth dark pools, and he noticed dampness against her pale cheek. Brass sighed, fearing the thoughts that stained her mind. She had not even noticed him.

"Sara?"

Startled, she turned to face him, the emotion in her eyes raw and unveiled. His eyes flickered at her pain, but she blinked, pushing it back beyond his view.

"Counting raindrops?" Brass asked quietly.

Sara glanced away, eyes lowered. She knew he was not talking about the rain outside. "Yeah. I've got a lot of raindrops, so it takes a while."

"Sometimes it's better not to count." He tilted his head slightly, expression kind. "I take it you've had your ear on the lab grapevine."

She shook her head with a vague bitter smile. "So I'm that obvious."

Brass shrugged. "I can't help it. I'm a detective." He was silent for a moment, studying her. Absently she pushed back a strand of brown hair, still watching the rain. "You know," he began slowly, "Grissom's a good man. Really, he is. But he's just . . ." He paused, weighing his words. "I think you know what you need to do."

Sara glanced at him with a faint grim nod. She did know, but doing it was something different. Letting go of the shipwreck was always the hardest part.

"Our past creates us, Sara. You can't be blamed for anything that's happened, that's made you what you are." Brass paused, forehead creasing. "But the past is only a blueprint. You get to decide what you become."

Sara fought back the tears that stung her eyes, struggling to fall. That was the conflict. She wanted to believe him, but still the memories tore at her with ragged fangs. Her past hung in a shroud of echoes, screaming in the silent eyes of every broken woman, in voids of innocence strangled with pain. It was as insistent as spattered blood on a white sheet.

Brass sighed, watching her. He felt like he was standing at a chasm's edge, helpless as she fell into darkness beyond his reach. A million images flashed through his mind, his own emotion clouding his dark blue eyes. He took a breath and spoke, his low voice rasped with weariness. "You deserve someone who isn't afraid to touch you without wearing latex gloves."

Sara looked up sharply, knowledge flashing between them as their eyes made contact. She realized that he had seen her behind the one-way glass, when Grissom spoke to Lurie in the Marlin case. He knew both sides, and he understood. It was all crystalized in that one sentence, pain that shattered and healed at the same time. They stared at each other in silence, then Sara tilted her head and started to speak.

They both turned as the door opened, and a police officer brought in the victim's boyfriend. "Eric Anderson?" Brass asked. He nodded. "Have a seat." Eric pulled out the chair and sat down. Brass and Sara did the same.

Sara took a deep breath, focusing on her work. She sized up Eric in a single glance, noting his broad shoulders and strong build.

"So, Eric," Brass began, voice even and mellow, "how long have you been seeing Jamie Martin?"

"A few weeks," Eric shrugged. "Met her in English class. We just went out to clubs, nothing special."

"Ah, I see. So that's why you're not upset about her death."

Eric shrugged. "It's sad. She was a pretty cool girl. We just weren't that close."

"A convenient arrangement," Sara commented. "Go out to bars, have sex, no real commitment from you."

"Well, no, it wasn't like that. I mean, I only slept with her like, twice, three times."

"What, once for each week you've known her?" Brass smiled disarmingly, and Eric shrugged vaguely. "Hey man, as long as it was okay with her. But you know, most girls don't like being the flavor of the month. Maybe Jamie wanted a little more from you."

Eric shook his head. "She never said anything like that, okay? She was cool with it."

"Okay," Brass nodded. The kid was unsettled. Now it was time for business. "So, when did you last see her?"

"Thursday. I dropped by to see if she wanted to go out, but she was studying for some test. Her roommate was getting ready for this girls' night out thing, so I figured maybe Jamie was really going with them. You know, sometimes they like to go out without the boyfriends."

Brass' pen moved fluidly across his notepad. "What time was this?"

"Around seven."

"Then where'd you go?"

"Tangiers. Me and my guys save up a pool of money and go out like once a month. It's just a thing." He noticed Sara's raised eyebrow. "Look, you can get the tapes. I was there."

"Oh, don't worry," Sara replied flatly.

Brass leaned forward slightly. "So, when you finished gambling, did you swing by Jamie's apartment?"

"See if your girlfriend was really there studying, or out with some other guy?" Sara added.

"No. And she wasn't my girlfriend."

"Oh, right," Brass nodded sarcastically. "I forgot. You just slept with her, that's all." He leaned back, eyebrow raised in a vague challenge.

Eric shifted uncomfortably. "Can I go now?" he asked, folding his arms. "I've got a game tomorrow."

"Sure," Brass smiled coolly. "Go Rebels."

As Eric left, Sara glanced at Brass. "He didn't do it."

"Nope," Brass agreed. "He's got no motive. Probably already got another girl. Besides, we're dealing with a clever killer. I hate to go with stereotypes, but this kid's not exactly the sharpest spur on the ranch."

Sara nodded. "A jerk, but not a murderer."

"We'll check out the alibi just the same." He sighed, flipping to the next page in his notepad. "So, on to the ex."

A few minutes later, the officer returned with the victim's ex-boyfriend, Shawn Miller. Sara studied him, noting his lanky build and sharp features. The young man sat across from them, adjusted his glasses and folded his arms on the table.

Brass glanced over his papers deliberately, tapping his pen against the table. Shawn shifted slightly, pinned by Sara's piercing gaze and Brass' apparent disinterest. After a maddening moment, Brass commented passively, "Must've really burned you up, huh Shawn."

Shawn looked up, his pale eyes sharp, but said nothing.

"You date this girl for what, three years?" Brass went on. "Buy her flowers, nice dates at fancy restaurants, the whole works. Think you've got something special. And what does she do? She dumps you for some jock who can't tell the difference between a homonym and a herbivore. What kind of person would do that?"

Sara noticed the young man's expression darkening, and hid a faint smile. Brass was almost inside.

"You're a smart guy, aren't you. But you know, even smart people get fooled. See a pretty face, hormones go haywire, end up doing stupid things. I'll bet you didn't even know she was using you."

Shawn's face twitched. "She said she loved me." His tone was hard, colder than Sara expected. "Bitch. I can't believe I didn't figure it out."

"It's a shame," Brass continued, his voice low and subtle. "People like that use other people, then move on. She was probably doing the same thing to the poor dope she left you for. Just as well she's gone."

Shawn blinked, the words catching on his lips. Anger flashed in his eyes. "No," he said sharply.

"You sure?" Brass smiled wryly, contradicted by his deathly cold gaze. "Because I don't know about you, but I'm sensing some bad feelings here." Without giving Shawn the chance to answer, he moved on. "So, where were you that night?"

Shawn frowned. "I was at the Tangiers. It's a monthly thing the guys on my floor do." Brass and Sara glanced at each other. "What? They have surveillance. I'm on tape all night."

Sara looked back at Shawn. "You know Eric Anderson?"

"Yeah, he lives on my floor. He's on the football team. So what?"

Brass shrugged. "Just seems like your world is pretty small."

Sara's cellphone rang, cutting into the room's tense quiet. Quickly she stood and left the room.

"Look," Shawn said as the door closed, "I'm being honest with you. I was mad at Jamie, but I didn't kill her. I wouldn't kill somebody for that."

"Oh, so you've given it some thought?" Brass asked coolly.

Shawn frowned, ignoring Brass' question. "You want me to be really honest? She wasn't even that great." He smirked arrogantly. "I've got this girl named Ashleigh, and believe me, if I'd met her in high school I never would've bothered with Jamie."

Brass leaned forward slightly, the intensity of his presence enough to make the young man's expression fade. "You know," he said, voice quiet as death, "I've got a girl named Sara. And believe _me_, if there's one shred of evidence to tie you to this murder, she'll find it and tear you apart. Get it?" A shadow of a sneer curled his lip.

Shawn stood roughly, noticeably paler. "I'm outta here," he spat, and left without another word.

Brass slid his notebook into his suit pocket and stood. He walked out into the hallway just as Sara was snapping her cellphone shut.

"That was UNLV returning my call," she said with a raised eyebrow. "Guess who had made a complaint of sexual harassment against a professor."

Brass nodded with a sigh. "Jamie Martin."

"Sounds like we should pay the good professor a visit," came a familiar voice from around the corner. They turned to see Grissom, car keys jingling in his hand. He raised an eyebrow with a slight smile. "Think he'd mind a few drop-ins?"

* * *

"Yes, I know Jamie Martin," Daniel Covington nodded, leaning back in his leather desk chair. Brass and Sara sat in the two chairs in front of the desk, while Grissom leaned against the bookcase behind Sara. The office was quiet and warmly lit, filled with books. "She's in my Introduction to American Literature class. A very bright young woman."

"Dr. Covington," Brass began, pen poised over his notebook, "how long have you taught at UNLV?"

"Two years as an adjunct, twelve as a full-time faculty member."

"Long enough to know the school's policy on professor/student relations," Brass commented.

Sara continued, "Jamie Martin made a complaint against you, alleging sexual harassment. Sexual innuendo, propositioning, inappropriate touching—"

"Look," Covington interrupted with a slight laugh, making Grissom's jawline tighten, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. We were involved, yes, but everything we did was consensual. Ask Jamie."

"She's dead," Brass stated flatly.

The professor's forehead creased, eyes sharp with disbelief. "You're not serious."

"Raped and murdered."

Covington frowned, rubbing his right temple. "My God. I can't believe something like this could happen to one of my students. How can this be?"

Grissom fingered his glasses thoughtfully. "We were hoping you could tell us."

A glimmer of suspicion passed over his face. "So that's why you're here. You think I had something to do with this."

Sara gazed at him sharply. "A young woman who declined your advances is dead."

"So what happened?" Brass continued, his voice subtle but insistent. "You're a good professor. You work hard to come up with a few A-students, and all the kids want to do is party, right? Some thanks. After all that stress you're entitled to some extra benefits." He paused, but not long enough to let Covington speak. "So, you see this pretty co-ed and decide to seize the day, but she's not interested. That's a shame, because you can't take no for an answer. Can you."

Covington shook his head, but Sara could tell that he was uncomfortable. "You should be a novelist, detective," he said coldly. "An interesting story, but devoid of truth. I didn't kill Jamie. Besides," he added, shifting slightly, "if the school had any evidence to support these accusations, I wouldn't still be here."

"Bureaucracy is slow, Dr. Covington," Grissom remarked. "But human passions rarely listen to a verdict from some guy behind a desk."

"So where were you last Thursday night?" Brass asked curtly.

Covington sighed with irritation. "You're wasting your time. I was at a conference in Seattle all of last week. I only got back this morning. Check with the school, or my airline and hotel. I wasn't even in the state."

Brass smiled sarcastically. "Of course you weren't. No one was around on Thursday night."

"Except Jamie Martin," Sara added darkly.

"Look," the professor spat, pushing back his chair, "this is bordering on harassment. Now, I have classes to teach. If you wish to speak with me again, you'll have to go through my lawyer." He stood and walked to the door, holding it open for them to leave.

"We'll be in touch," Brass promised as Covington shut the door loudly behind them.

As they started toward the parking lot, Sara shook her head. "Well, we've got three guys, two with motive, all with credible alibis."

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. "Which means we have no suspect."

Brass sighed. "So what _do _we have?"

"An M.O." Grissom frowned, forehead creasing. "We should lay this thing out from the beginning. Maybe we've overlooked something."

"Break out the coffee maker," Brass said wryly. "This case calls for high-octane black."


	4. Two Princes and a Hunch

"Okay, here's what we know," Sara began, glancing at Grissom and Brass, who sat beside and across from her at the table. "On Thursday night, Jamie was at her apartment. Her boyfriend Eric Anderson dropped by around 7 PM, then left for Tangiers with his friends."

"Including Shawn Miller, the ex-boyfriend," Brass added, sipping his coffee.

"Ironic," Grissom remarked. "Two possible suspects with the same alibi. If the ex knew, we'd probably be looking at a straight-up homicide."

"That would be nice for a change."

"Yeah, really," Sara agreed with a wry nod. "So, at about 9 PM, Jamie's roommate Kristen left to go clubbing with their friends. Jamie was alone, studying. At some point between 9 PM and 1 AM, the killer came to her door. He gets inside without a struggle, suggesting that it was someone she knew."

Grissom tilted his head thoughtfully, picking up his own coffee. "There are other options, too. Maybe he had a key somehow. Or he seemed trustworthy or non-threatening, like a delivery guy or cop or something."

"I like that last idea," Brass nodded. "You know, my guys talked to everyone in that building. No one heard or saw anything. They all said it was a typical Thursday night."

"We should look into the apartment manager, and anyone who may have made deliveries that night," Grissom suggested.

"Anyway," Sara went on, "he got inside somehow. They struggled briefly, and Jamie was subdued. The tox results came back—he used chloroform to sedate her."

"Old-school," Brass commented.

"Yeah," Grissom agreed, "but effective. He could have soaked a cloth in it and put it over her mouth and nose. She would have been sedated for at least an hour."

"Long enough to get her in his vehicle and transport her somewhere," Sara nodded. "Over the course of a week, she was physically abused, given little food, and raped multiple times with an indeterminate object. Then the killer strangled her to death with a belt."

"Ligatures are often weapons of opportunity," Grissom commented. "People will grab the first thing they can find. With a crime this planned out, though, I doubt that was the case."

"That's how he intended to kill her," Brass stated with a sigh. He pointed to the autopsy photos on the table. "He didn't leave any evidence from himself, but he did want to leave his mark on her. Like a signature."

Sara nodded grimly. "And after he'd killed her, he dumped her body at the roadside where we found her. The rain washed away any evidence besides the body."

"You know, maybe he was waiting until it rained to kill her," Brass suggested. "He seems concerned with not leaving evidence."

"So what can we surmise about our killer?" Grissom mused, leaning back in his chair. "He's either a serious forensics buff, or involved in the field. Or maybe he's been doing research, planning for this murder for some time. He probably appears non-threatening, since Jamie may have let him in. He has access to chloroform, which doesn't limit our pool by much. He has a vehicle, and a place to keep Jamie for a week without anyone noticing."

Sara frowned, studying the photos. "This is a lot of trouble and hate just to kill one woman. It doesn't feel right." She paused at the photo of Jamie's face and neck, noticing the four small cuts. "Guys, what's this?"

"We don't know," Grissom shrugged. "Seems to be a random wound." Then his forehead creased, blue eyes sharp. The three of them stared at the picture, minds working in rapid unison.

"Four," Sara said simply, tracing her slender finger across the picture. She glanced up, her eyes solemn.

Brass met her gaze with a grim nod. "I've got a hunch."

* * *

Light from the large projection screen shone across the room, casting a cold blue glow. Photographs of three female bodies were spread over the screen, positions mirroring each other. Their bodies were unbound, wearing only undergarments, long hair splayed around them. 

"Like fallen angels," Grissom remarked quietly, his expression solemn. "So Jim, these are all the unsolved cases matched to our M.O.?"

Brass nodded, rubbing his left temple. "Three women beside our victim, all in Nevada. Our theory is right—it's a serial. One who numbers his victims."

Sara gazed at the screen, arms folded tightly around her slim figure. The images of the three fallen women were reflected softly in her eyes.

_Lauren Clark, eighteen, college freshman._

_Julie Palermo, nineteen, waitress. _

_Lisa Bates, seventeen, high school senior. _

"They all look different," she commented after a moment. "Light brown hair, black hair, dirty blonde. Similar builds and ages, though."

"Well, not every serial has a specific type," Grissom commented. "Some are just looking for a general category, or even select victims randomly."

"So then our guy's not that picky," Brass sighed. "How reassuring."

Grissom glanced at Sara. "What are the stats on these three murders?"

Sara glanced over the sheet they had printed. "On January 20 of this year, Lauren Clark was kidnapped from her Reno apartment. One week later, her body was found dumped at a medium-traveled roadside. Julie Palermo was reported missing on the 29th, possibly kidnapped the previous day. On February 3, her body was also found, not in the same place but a roadside similar to the first. On the 5th, Lisa Bates was kidnapped from Sparks. Her body was found in a similar area on the 12th. Twenty-five days passed before Jamie Martin's kidnapping."

The three of them stood in silence for a few minutes, studying the photographs and case information. Grissom tilted his head, eyes intense as he worked out the situation in his mind. "Something's not right here," he muttered.

Brass glanced sideways at him with a raised eyebrow. "Besides four women being dead."

Grissom moved closer to the screen, gesturing to the photographs. "Lauren Clark and Julie Palermo were from Reno. Lisa Bates was from Sparks, less than five miles from the first two victims. But Jamie Martin lived here in Vegas."

"Yeah," Brass frowned. "That's like a four-hundred mile leap."

"Right," Sara agreed, catching on to Grissom's idea. "The first three victims were clustered together in location and time of death. They were kidnapped and killed in just over three weeks."

"Then the killer waited about three-and-a-half weeks before kidnapping Jamie Martin," Grissom continued, turning from the screen to face them.

Brass tilted his head thoughtfully. "So why the change in M.O.?"

"I don't think it's a change in M.O.," Grissom frowned. "I think it's really part of the M.O."

"He works in threes," Sara stated, staring at the screen.

Brass glanced at her, his eyes somber. "Three victims in each area."

Grissom nodded slowly. "And it's been six days since Jamie's murder."

"Which means he already has his next victim," Sara sighed.

"Which means, in less than two days, we'll have another homicide," Grissom finished grimly.

"I'll contact P.D. in Reno," Brass sighed wearily. "And check out missing persons, see if there's anyone similar to the victims who's been reported in the last week."

Sara nodded. "Until the next victim comes in, I'll go over the evidence from the other four. Try to find something they all have in common, that maybe ties them to the killer."

"I'm gonna talk to Ecklie." Grissom frowned slightly, as if the name was distasteful. "And Catherine. We're short of help as it is, and this is a big case. Maybe he'll let us combine shifts again."

"Where are your flunkies, anyway?" Brass asked with a raised eyebrow, making Sara hide a faint smile.

"Greg's in court for that case he finished last month," Grissom replied, vague irritation seeping into his voice. "Sophia left for the east coast yesterday, on a scheduled academic leave. She'll be gone for a month."

"We could use the extra hands in the lab, to look over evidence," Sara said firmly, "but it's still our case."

"Oh, definitely." Grissom started for the door with a resolute nod. "So, let's get to work."

* * *

"So let me get this straight." Catherine Willows leaned back in her chair, fingers laced together, lip curled slightly in annoyance. "You want me to hand off my case, and have me and my team join your case." 

"Yes," Grissom nodded, jaw tense. "I already spoke to Ecklie."

Catherine shook her head, eyebrow raised in disbelief. "Ecklie can go to hell. My team is dealing with a gang-related double homicide. It's a big case."

"So's mine. Serial rapist and murderer, at least four women killed so far, and we think he has his next victim already."

"Look, Gil, every crime's a tragedy," she said with an honest sigh. "I really hope you catch your guy. But Ecklie can't keep combining shifts for every case that looks good on TV. What happens to all the other cases? A victim who isn't pretty or famous gets their case dealt with by some kid who just puked their way through their first autopsy? Sounds fair to me."

Grissom removed his glasses slowly. "I know, Cath. Every case is important. It's just that my team is seriously cut back. Right now I've only got Sara. Jim is on the case, too, but he's no criminalist."

Catherine shook her head with a sarcastic smile. "Dream team. So are you guys all pulling quadruples or what?"

"That's my point." He sighed, shaking his head. "Right now we're waiting on Reno. We may need someone to go there to check out the evidence from those murders, or they might send the evidence to us. They're all body dumps, with no primary crime scene. Victimology is the only thing we have that might point to a suspect. If we can find somewhere all the women went, or something they all did . . ." Grissom shrugged. "If you don't want to transfer your team, maybe you could just spare Nick or Warrick."

"Possible road trip," Catherine nodded. "That always gets the boys excited. I'll talk to them and get back to you."

"You know," Grissom remarked, fiddling with his glasses, "it really was easier when we were all on the same shift."

Catherine tossed her reddish-blonde hair with a dismissive shrug. "Easier doesn't mean better, Gil."

Grissom gazed at her for a moment, wondering if she really was the same person he used to work with. So much had changed since the shift split. The veneer of friendship was still there, but the old sense of family and mutual trust had fractured."Thanks for your help," he said quietly, then stood and left her office.

* * *

"Hey, Gil." 

Grissom glanced up from the pile of papers engulfing his desk, a flood of white in the office's warm light. Brass was standing in the doorway, hand resting against the doorframe. "Jim," he nodded absently, attemting to straighten the stack.

Brass took a step inside, lines of hard experience in his face seeming harsher than usual. "Got a minute?"

"Is it about the case?"

"No. It's a, uh, personal matter."

Grissom raised an eyebrow, but gestured to a chair in front of the desk. "Go ahead."

Brass sat down carefully and took a deep breath. "I've been at this job for half my life, and some of my best experiences have been working with you CSIs. You guys—you're like a family, you know? I'm all alone out here, so it's nice to work with some people I can consider my friends." He loosened his tie with a vague sigh. "I'm the outsider, the guy who never really made it through the narrow gate. But I see things, and I've learned how to read people." He paused, frowning slightly. "For the past six years I've been watching from the sidelines, noticing the looks, the words exchanged. Hell, you pretty much came right out and said it in front of that doctor in the Marlin case."

Grissom removed his glasses slowly. "This is about Sara."

"What are you doing, Gil?" Brass asked, forehead creasing. "One day everything is fine, and you're joking around like a highschool kid with a crush. Then you get all angsty, or worse, withdraw completely."

"What's the point of this, Jim?" Grissom leaned back in his chair, frowning. Irritation seeped into his voice. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Gil." Brass tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "I think you know."

Grissom sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. "Look. I like Sara. She's vital, intelligent, great at her job. She's one of the best CSIs I know. Yes, she's attractive, and I admit I find her interest in me flattering. But I can't—"

"Yeah, I know. I heard what you said to Lurie." Brass shook his head, mellow voice lowering. "I've been alone for a long time. If you want to get real technical, I've never been with someone who really got me. At this point, I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to be alone until I die. But you . . ." He paused, dark blue eyes weary. "You had a chance. A brilliant, beautiful young woman who would do anything for you. Men have killed for less."

"She's not an angel," Grissom said curtly, voice strained.

"Neither are you. None of us are." Brass' eyes hardened. "And you know, last time I checked, being angelic wasn't exactly on your list of qualities for a mate."

"Jim." His voice carried a harsh warning.

"I don't get it. I really don't. I mean, you're willing to do a dominatrix who's one step away from a whore—and a suspect in a murder investigation."

Grissom's jawline tightened sharply, but Brass gave him no room to reply.

"Yet when our own Sara Sidle asks you out to dinner, you turn her down, then go babbling to some murderer about risking too much."

"Do you hear _everything_ or what?" Grissom's tone grew louder. "And don't give me that detective crap."

"It's not about being a detective. It's about being a compassionate human being, and thinking about other people's feelings." Brass' voice rose to match Grissom's. "Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe you've been staring in a microscope for so damn long that you forgot about that."

Grissom threw up his hands, growing angrier. "What the hell do you want me to say? It was bad timing. It was bad judgment. It ended. I screwed up, okay?"

"Finally some truth."

"You can't possibly tell me you haven't done something like that."

"Actually I can. I have _never_ gotten involved with anyone in an investigation, and you know why? We're human, and we're not blind. But no pretty face or million-dollar figure is worth compromising an investigation, especially a murder. There are _people_ connected to all the DNA and fingerprints, and that's more important than anything. If she had been the killer, do you really think she would have been convicted once a lawyer heard about it? That case was rough enough without your added drama." Brass shook his head, the steel in his voice tempering slightly. "But you know what, Gil? It doesn't really matter in the end. It's not about you, and it's not about me. It's about Sara."

They glared at each other in the sudden silence, two shades of blue crashing together in the space above the desk. The strength of their wills cut knifelike through the tense air, driven by inner forces neither of them fully understood.

Grissom took a deep breath, calming himself down. "I can't pursue a relationship with her," he said quietly. It sounded harsh, but there was no other way to say it.

"What are you afraid of?" Brass' voice had fallen to just above a whisper, rich and subtle. "It's not because she works for you, or that she's younger. Maybe you're just married to science. You think real people are too dangerous, because they can hurt you. Is it her baggage?" He paused thoughtfully. "We all have stuff we carry around with us that we'd forget. Even you."

"I'm not going to explain it to you, Jim." Shadow dimmed his clear blue eyes. "I have reasons, and that's it."

"You know what's really weird?" Brass mused. "If she went out with some other guy, you'd be green with envy. Like that EMT who ended up being a jerk. You weren't too happy about him. Or anyone who looks at her sideways."

"Can I ask you a question?" Grissom's eyes narrowed with deadly irritation. "Why are you so protective?"

"Of Sara?" Brass tilted his head. "Someone around here has to be. It's not like there are people lining up." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Look, I'm just trying to set some things straight here. It's your move, and, well, you're not moving. Consider this a nudge."

"To do what?" His brief calm was starting to wear off.

"Either get up off your ass and do something about it, or let it go."

"Maybe I'm not ready for that yet."

"So when will you be ready, Gil? In another six years? Do you really think she'll be sitting in some tower, waiting for her knight in shining latex gloves to come save her?" Brass shook his head. "You're not the only man in the world. Someday, someone will notice her, and sweep her off her feet so fast you won't know what happened. But it will be too late."

Grissom rolled his eyes, his jawline tense again. "Thank you for your sagely advice, fairy godmother. Or is it Prince Charming?" A sneer flickered across Brass' lips. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to end this little session and get some work done."

Brass stood sharply. "I'll send you the bill."

At that moment, his cellphone rang, jarring the quiet aftermath with its cold trill. He shook his head, withdrawing the phone from his pocket. Grissom leaned back, lips tight together. "Yeah," Brass answered it curtly. A shadow crossed his face as he listened. "Okay. We'll be right there." He snapped the phone shut with a sigh, and glanced up.

Grissom took a deep breath. As their eyes met, their anger ebbed, replaced by a sharply refocused knowledge. Grissom knew what it was without Brass saying a word.

Brass slid his phone into his jacket. "We have our fifth victim."


	5. Vultures and Hollow Men

Dusk hung thickly grey over the roadside, punctuated by the bright white, blue, and red lights of squad cars. Yellow tape fluttered in the cool breeze that stirred the rain-soaked air, and the moisture still clinging to the tree branches. Grissom stood a few feet in from the road, backlit in the harsh glow, tracing his flashlight across the body. The woman was lying on her side, wearing only a bra and underwear. A few strands of her long, straight dark hair floated across her face, thinly veiling her pale skin and full lips. She was young—maybe under eighteen. Ligature marks cruelly encircled her neck, and cuts and bruises covered her body. His flashlight lingered at her neck, revealing five small, parallel cuts.

"So we meet again," Grissom said quietly, the body's distorted image reflecting in his glasses and clear blue eyes.

"Well, it's definitely our M.O." Grissom turned to see Brass standing at his right, gazing grimly at the body. "First officer tells me that an amorous teenage couple found her. Pulled over in their favorite spot, and, well, I guess this ruined the mood. They're clear." He tilted his head, peering at the victim's face. "I saw this girl in the missing person's reports. Samantha Guerin, from Henderson. She was reported a week ago today. I thought she was a potential victim," he added with a sigh.

Grissom nodded absently. "He's accelerating." He stepped closer to the body and squatted down beside it. "He kidnapped her right after strangling Jamie Martin."

Brass nodded, flexing his fingers. "Serials do that. I wonder what the rush is, though."

"Who knows why anybody does anything," Grissom shrugged, studying the distinctive ligature marks.

A car door slammed, and Brass turned to see that Sara had arrived. She stopped beside him, kit in hand, her expression strained. "Damn it," she spat sharply, lowering her flashlight.

"Sara," Grissom warned, without looking up.

Brass frowned at Grissom, lip curling in disgust. She had a right to be upset—the killer they were hunting had taken another victim. But Grissom suppressed his own emotion, so of course he expected that same cold aloofness from others. Sighing slightly, Brass gently patted Sara's shoulder, understanding in his eyes. She gave him a faint grateful smile, then moved to the other side of the body.

As Sara began taking photographs, Grissom paused near the victim's thigh, his flashlight catching on something. Frowning, he took a pair of long tweezers from his kit and reached into the shallow wound. He withdrew what looked like a small piece of glass.

"Now that's new," Brass remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah." Grissom slipped it into an evidence bag. "I'll get it to Trace. Maybe we'll get lucky and find something unusual."

Sara tilted her head thoughtfully, looking over the scene as a whole. "Her body is closer to the road than the last victim."

"The killer wants them to be found," Brass suggested. "Feeds his ego, maybe."

"I think it's also about risk," Grissom commented. "By taking his victims from their homes, keeping them for a week, then dumping them in fairly public places, he's increasing his chances of getting caught. It gives him more of a thrill, and heightens his feeling of power. Which is what sadistic sexual crime is all about."

"Power and possession," Sara recited quietly. "The victim is dehumanized and dominated, completely at his mercy. The killer becomes god."

"I guess that makes us devils," Brass muttered, gazing down the road. He noticed the grey media vans barreling toward the scene, and rolled his eyes with disdain. "She's been dead for less than three hours, and the vultures are already circling."

Grissom glanced over his shoulder. "I'm too busy to talk to them."

"You want me to be the sacrificial lamb, as usual?" Brass asked, tensely sarcastic.

"Yeah, could you?" Grissom replied, not bothering to hide his festering irritation. "You look prettier on TV than I do."

Brass' lip curled, a sharp spark glittering in his eyes. Squaring his shoulders, he turned and walked toward the swarming journalists.

Sara raised an eyebrow at their exchange. "Did I miss something, Grissom?"

As if he had not heard her, Grissom stood without answering, an oddly puzzled expression on his face. "I'm bringing this glass to Trace," he stated absently. "Why don't you finish up the one-to-ones and then keep working on the victimology."

"Okay," Sara returned quietly, frowning. She had already taken all the necessary photos.

Gazing over the scene for a final time, Grissom nodded vaguely, then turned and left.

Sara started packing up her kit, and glanced over to where Brass was standing, engulfed by eager reporters. Microphones bristled like cactus spines in front of him, his strong silhouette outlined sharply by the glaring lights. She allowed herself a slight smile at his confident answers and firmly repeated "No comment." She knew Brass hated the media's hype and sensationalism, the way they sought out stories to increase their nightly ratings and personal fame. He was a fierce advocate of truth, and the polished evening news was sometimes far from it.

Closing her kit with a snap, Sara stood and walked toward her CSI-standard-issue blue SUV. She wondered why Grissom was in a bad mood this time, and why he and Brass were suddenly not getting along. Frowning, her mind traced back over the past few days. She realized the last time she had spoken to Brass alone was when he had made his revelation about Lurie's interrogation. The shared knowledge made her vaguely uneasy, like when he found out about her issues with alcohol. But he never told anyone about her problems. He trusted her to do what was best, just as she trusted him. It was a comfort.

_But the look in his eyes._

Sara paused, lowering her gaze with a sigh. The only time she had seen such mingled fire and sorrow was when she looked in the mirror. She knew Brass protected her because he understood.

As she opened her car door, a question from one of the reporters caught her attention.

"Captain, do you have any information on the message from the killer that was received by the _Las Vegas Review-Journal _earlier today?"

Sara paused, frowning sharply. What message? "I can't comment on the details of an active investigation," Brass replied without hesitation. "I assure you, we are doing all we can to find this killer and bring him to justice. Thank you," he added with a final nod, then turned and walked toward Sara, leaving the media to their speculation.

"What message from the killer?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as he stopped beside her.

"Damned if I know," Brass shrugged. "But we're going to find out." He tilted his head toward his sleek unmarked car, smiling for her through his weariness. "Feel like a Thursday evening drive?"

* * *

Grissom gazed at the dead young woman on the steel table, blinking hard in an attempt to increase his focus. He was distracted, his mind going in two different directions. _Damn that Brass_, he cursed mentally. Of course, personal issues were always in his thoughts somewhere, but he tried not to deal with them too often. Though he loved studying the tiniest fiber under a microscope, he kept his feelings at a safe distance. Emotions were too fickle, too dangerous. He would deal with Sara in some way, eventually. Still, Grissom wondered why Brass had confronted him at that time. Had he been talking to Sara? The thought made Grissom uneasy. 

"Long shift, Gil?" Doctor Robbins, glancing at him across the autopsy table.

Grissom glanced up. "Sorry, Albert. I was just, uh, thinking. About the case." He straightened and cleared his throat. "So, anything different?"

"She's exactly like the last victim," Robbins shrugged. "Strangulation with a belt as ligature, repeated object rape, physical abuse, no food for about a week. The only difference is, she's marked with five cuts." The medical examiner shook his head with a curious frown. "Isn't marking victims like this unusual?"

"Any kind of signature is unusual, actually," Grissom admitted. "Serials often have no signature, and use a varying M.O. It's a common misconception that killers always kill the same way."

"So you have yourself a rarity," Robbins nodded. "If anything, this attack was more brutal than the last, especially the rape. Remarkably vicious tears and bruising."

"And she felt all of it. He wanted her to." Grissom shook his head slowly. "I've seen too many rapist murderer cases, but sometimes the level of violence just amazes me." He started slightly as his pager beeped. Withdrawing it from his belt, he glanced at it quickly, then slid it back in place. "Hodges," Grissom stated apologetically, then slipped off his lab coat and hurried out the door.

* * *

Sara gazed at her reflection in the dark window, watching the lights flicker through it like fireflies skimming over still water. She always liked riding in a car at night. Something about it was peaceful, and made everything seem beautiful in a strange, sharp way. It felt safe. 

"Nickel for your thoughts."

Sara turned to her left, pushing back a strand of dark hair. "Inflation," Brass shrugged with a warm smile, glancing back out the windshield. She let herself smile back, trying to fill the empty, shadowed corners in her mind.

"Actually," she replied with vague embarrassment, "I was thinking about how I used to like riding in a car at night, when I was little. I remember thinking the cars' lights looked like strings of diamonds and rubies, in some princess' castle somewhere." Sara shrugged slightly. "Silly, huh."

"Not at all," Brass smiled, hand sliding along the steering wheel as they turned. "You were a little girl, Sara. Little girls see jewels and castles everywhere. It's the beauty of childhood."

Sara bit her lip, forcing back the sharp, metallic memory that lingered in her senses. It always smelled like copper. Like blood. "It wasn't beautiful," she said faintly.

Brass glanced at her, concern flooding his dark blue eyes. He had long suspected that something had happened to Sara, but never sought it out, assuming she would tell him if she wanted him to know. His jaw tensed, the thought of someone having hurt her cutting him like a cold knife.

"It's okay," Sara said, attempting to reassure him. "I, uh, talked it over with my counselor, and with Grissom, actually. Just saying it to somebody was cathartic, even if they didn't really offer much help." She shifted slightly, dashing the moisture from her deep brown eyes. "I'm at the point that I need to move past it—to get on with my life, not to think about it. It's just . . . hard to let go."

Brass nodded slowly, his gaze soft. "For whatever it's worth," he said gently, "I'm here if you need anything. _Anything_."

"I know." Her voice was just above a whisper, weakened by the strength of his eyes. _I guess you always have been._

_

* * *

_

"I'm hoping you didn't page me to say it's ordinary glass." Grissom folded his arms with a raised eyebrow.

Hodges tilted his head with a slightly arrogant smile. "Please." He gestured to the microscope, and Grissom peered into it. "On this side, you can look straight through to the blue circle on the paper underneath. Now you see it . . ." He reached beneath the lens with long tweezers and flipped over the shard. "Now you don't."

"One-way glass, or mirror glass," Grissom remarked, noticing the reflection of the lens. "Oh, and excellent display," he added wryly. "Pretty soon you'll have photo collages and fancy diagram posters, like Greg."

"This is a crime lab, not an art studio," Hodges said, rolling his eyes. "But Sanders would have such _unconventional_ methods."

Grissom pulled back from the scope, ignoring the trace analyst. "This raises the question of what one-way glass is doing on our vic."

"That's not for me to answer," Hodges shrugged. "However, being the hardworking and devoted employee that I am, I looked up distributors and manufacturers of one-way glass in Nevada." He pointed to a sheet of paper on a nearby desk. "There are about half a dozen. You could get a sample from each place, and I can compare densities and other properties, maybe find a possible match. It's a wild goose chase."

"Ah," Grissom corrected, "but at least there's a goose we're chasing, not just a ghost." He snatched up the paper and started toward the doorway. "This is the second time you've impressed me, David Hodges."

"A raise would be sufficient thanks," Hodges called after him. "Sir."

* * *

"We received the letter this morning," stated Stuart Williams, editor-in-chief of the _Las Vegas Review-Journal_. He paced nervously in front of the closed blue drapes, casting sharp shadows in the coldly lit, modern office. Brass and Sara stood by the desk. "The opinions editor was disturbed by its contents, so she brought it to me. We're going to run it in tomorrow's paper as part of our full coverage of the Silver State Strangler." 

"Catchy," Brass frowned. "And when exactly were you going to call us?"

"Let me guess," Sara suggested with a raised eyebrow. "After tomorrow's paper came out."

Williams threw up his hands. "This hasn't happened to me before. But I kept the letter and the envelope it came in." He went over to his desk and withdrew an envelope from the top drawer.

Sara slipped on her latex gloves. "We'll also need the fingerprints of anyone who touched it, so we can rule you out and identify any possible prints from the killer."

"Sure," the editor nodded quickly. "Anything you need." He handed Sara the envelope, and she held it so Brass could see it over her shoulder.

"Henderson," Brass commented, noting the postmark. "We'll check out the post office later."

Nodding, Sara withdrew the letter from its envelope. It was a sheet of plain white paper, the message typed in nondescript letters.

_I applaud your efforts. You've connected some dots, but you're still too far. I suggest you don't try getting any closer. _

_I've used this one up, and I won't keep the next one waiting. My trinities keep spinning—seeing, breathing, dying—all in my hands. You people don't know what life is, not until you've squeezed out every drop of it with someone's breath. Each time I become more powerful. I've done it many times. It feeds me._

_Nothing you can do will stop this cycle, and if you try too hard there will be consequences. Keep looking behind you. I suggest you keep an eye on your bitch, too. At least she's not my type._

_Not with a bang but a whimper _

Sara folded the paper, her eyes solemn. She glanced over her shoulder, startled by the closeness of Brass' dark blue gaze. "We'll, uh, get this to Questioned Documents at the crime lab," she said to the editor, turning back to face him.

"If you receive anything else, send it to LVPD immediately," Brass ordered.

"Yes, of course, Captain," Williams agreed quickly. "We'll be in contact with you."

As they reached the parking lot, Sara felt Brass' arm protectively against her back. "I'm okay," she lied, her voice quiet.

Brass stopped and turned to face her, his face sharply lined in the streetlights' glow. He sighed deeply, weariness and fierce concern melding in his eyes. "I . . . I'll be looking out for you," he assured her. "I won't let anything happen."

"Don't worry, Jim," Sara said softly. He stared at her for a moment, then turned to unlock the car. She glanced up at the sky, the stars hidden above the city's glare. She knew her words were hollow.

* * *

"Why exactly are you calling me while I'm at a crime scene?" 

Grissom leaned back in his desk chair, raising an eyebrow at Catherine's tone coming from his cellphone. "We got the victim's things from Reno, and I was wondering if you'd talked to Nick or Warrick yet."

"Gil." He could hear sirens and people talking in the background. "Right now I'm looking at three 419s, all execution-style gunshots to the head. I've got screaming family members clawing at me, plus eyewitnesses. P.D. already has possible suspects to check out. I can't spare either of my guys."

"Well, did you ask if—"

"Yeah, I asked. They'd love to help, but we're kinda booked." Catherine paused, and Grissom thought he heard her talking to someone, then her voice returned. "I'm really sorry, but I'm maxed out, too. I gotta go."

"Okay, Cath," Grissom sighed as she hung up. He knew she had her own difficult case to deal with. Still, he missed her company, and the old team. Employees' gambling, sleeping with prostitutes, paternity test scandals and "gift" checks—somehow, that stuff had been simpler. Frowning, Grissom put away his cellphone and got up from the desk. He grumbled darkly to himself as he left his office and started down the hall. As he rounded a corner, he crashed into Sara.

"Hey," she greeted, then paused as she noticed his expression. "Something wrong?"

"Where have you been, Sara?" he asked, voice sounding harsher than he intended. "We finally got the stuff from Reno, and I've got nobody here to look it over."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "You always tell me to run with the case. I was with Brass, following a—"

"Oh, so now he needs a sidekick." Grissom rolled his eyes and kept marching down the hall. "He has the whole homicide department. He doesn't need to steal my CSI."

"We were following a lead," Sara snapped defensively, catching up to him easily with her long strides.

"A lead on what? I took the glass, and there was nothing else at that crime scene." He glanced over his shoulder, surprised at her firm tone. "You should have called me," he added, a vaguely possessive glint in his eyes.

"I was doing what I always do," Sara frowned. "If you wanted me here that badly, you could have called."

"Well, I'm your supervisor," Grissom stated, "so you need to tell me when you're going to deviate from my instructions."

As they reached the evidence room, Sara paused by the edge of the table and folded her arms. "What's your problem, Grissom?" she asked quietly. "Why are you so ticked off at Brass?"

_Damn it_, Grissom growled mentally as he started separating the evidence bags. "Call it the stress of the case," he said instead, waving his hand dismissively. "Besides, I'm not ticked off. This lab has work that needs to get done, and I'm trying to make sure somebody does it."

"Of course. The lab." Sara rolled her eyes, but Grissom either ignored it or did not notice. "Aren't you going to ask what we found?"

"What did we find, Sara?" Grissom sighed with exasperation, his tone slightly mocking.

Without speaking, she held up the letter in its neat plastic evidence bag. Grissom frowned and took it from her. As he read the message, the irritation drained from his face, replaced by grim solemnity. A cold, visceral memory of a dark-haired woman, throat slashed in her tiled shower, shouted at him from a corner of his mind. The butterfly on her back had been red, like the blood surrounding her. It was too close. "This psychopath is threatening you," he growled when he finished reading.

Sara nodded, suppressing the cold that tingled her back. "Serial killers often threaten law enforcement. I still have to do my job."

He sighed, leaning against the shelves behind him. "Well, you should stay in the lab as much as possible, and make sure you have an officer nearby when you're at a scene."

"I'll be careful," Sara assured him, then went on, "I'm bringing the letter to Q.D. I already fumed it—there are no prints except from the two editors from the _Review-Journal_, where it was sent. First glance says it's just a generic printer, nothing traceable."

Grissom glanced over the letter again, forcing himself to focus on the case. "'The Hollow Men,'" he muttered, eyes lingering on the last line.

"Excuse me?"

"This last part is a quote from T.S. Eliot's poem 'The Hollow Men,'" Grissom explained as he pointed to the line. "'This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper.'"

"A serial killer who likes poetry." Sara raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. In between victims he visits the library." Grissom paused, adjusting his glasses. "Well, the shard from the vic was one-way glass. I'm going to contact some companies—we may be able to determine the distributor."

Sara frowned. "So he knows forensics, uses chloroform, and has one-way glass."

"Odd, I know," Grissom nodded. "And the glass was _inside_ the victim's wound, suggesting that it created that wound. It wasn't transfer from his clothes or something. She was somewhere with one-way glass, either already broken or broken while she was there."

"But why? What does it signify?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. We'll chase it, anyway. Maybe we'll find something." Shrugging, he added, "Anyway, I'm going to start looking over this stuff. We're focusing on planners, calendars, journals—anything that has people the victims knew, or places they may have gone. We're just looking for some connection."

"I'll help," Sara nodded. "First thing tomorrow I'm going to see Samantha Guerin's apartment, right after we talk to her family."

"Yeah, I'm going to see the family, too. Keeps things in perspective, without getting too involved." He returned the letter to her and glanced over the bags again. "When you go to the apartment, make sure you bring a uniform."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Am I allowed to take Brass?"

Grissom glanced at her over his glasses. "Yes," he frowned. "He's a good cop. Besides, you get along." He knew he sounded too sarcastic, but he did not care anymore.

"Yeah, we do." Shaking her head, Sara turned and started down the hall toward Questioned Documents. Grissom noticed her lack of sarcasm and glanced up, but she had already gone. He looked back at the evidence and took a deep breath.

_The case. Just worry about the case._


	6. Getting Closer

Pale golden sunlight poured through the gridded glass wall into the neat, warmly dignified office, resting softly on its collection of photographs, medals, and bronze statues. Brass sat behind his desk, hands folded on its smooth leather blotter. Sara stood beside him, and Grissom leaned against the bookcases behind the desk. A middle-aged couple sat across from them, their faces masks of solemn grief.

"Sammy was my niece," Andrea White said quietly, wiping away a tear. "Her parents died when she was three. Car accident. Joseph and I took her in, raised her like a daughter. I just . . . I can't believe this is happening." Her husband squeezed her hand.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sara offered gently, the light gleaming in her dark hair.

Joseph White looked up at Brass, his eyes dulled with anger and disbelief. "Do you have any leads, Captain?"

Brass lowered his gaze briefly. "It's a difficult case, but we're doing all we can."

"On the news, they're saying it's a serial killer," Andrea ventured hesitantly. "Is it true?"

"We believe so, Mrs. White," Grissom nodded.

The woman shook her head, gripping the arm of her chair. "I want to know what happened to her."

Brass and Sara glanced at each other, then Sara looked back at the couple. "Mrs. White," she began carefully, "describing Samantha's injuries would only increase your grief, but if you—"

"Was she raped?" Andrea's voice was faint, her hazel eyes wide and damp with tears.

Sara met the woman's gaze with compassion, and nodded silently.

"Bastard," Joseph spat as his wife lowered her head. "And you're telling us he's still out there."

Brass sighed wearily. "Investigations take time to—"

"So how many more innocent girls are going to die before you catch him?" the uncle snapped, his grief manifesting in anger.

"Joseph." Andrea silenced him with her somber gaze. "These people are doing their best, and they're going to find him. Aren't you?" She turned back to them, eyes imploring.

Sara and Brass were silent, but Grissom said firmly, "I promise you, we will."

Andrea nodded slowly, reassured by the determination in his clear blue eyes, then asked, "May we see her?"

Brass nodded, and Sara walked around to the other side of the desk as the couple stood. She brought them to the door, and left them with a waiting officer to be escorted to the morgue.

Sara closed the door behind them, then turned to face Grissom and Brass. "Why are you so confident, Grissom?"

Grissom tilted his head with a slight shrug. "You know we have to believe it, Sara. Serials are human, and eventually they make mistakes. When he does, we'll be waiting."

"Yeah," Brass sighed. "It just takes time."

Sara nodded thoughtfully, and the three of them were silent, absorbed in their own thoughts. Sunlight, catching faintly on the air's dust, shone warmly on her back and cast her shadow in a dark pool across the floor. She gazed at the two men in front of her, so different in appearance and personality, but still close friends. When they worked together they were unstoppable. She hoped nothing had come between them. Sighing, her mind sank back to the case, its intensity pressing against her like a cold hand around her throat. She was trapped in narrow darkness, chasing an invisible killer down an endless tunnel where her past still hissed at her from the shadows. The world seemed choked with pain and bloodshed, but she had to keep pressing on. At least she knew, no matter what might happen, these were the two people she wanted with her.

Her dark lashes flashed downward as she felt Brass' gaze on her. Meeting his eyes, Sara caught a glimpse of wistful sadness in their dark blue depths, veiled quickly with a blink of eyelids lined with weariness. Silently, they gazed at each other across the golden space.

_You deserve someone who isn't afraid to touch you without wearing latex gloves._

Pushing back a strand of her hair, Sara slowly released his gaze and glanced at Grissom, who was staring absently at the floor. "We should, uh, get back to work," she suggested quietly.

"Right," Grissom nodded, straightening. "I've got more of the victims' stuff to look over. Maybe I'll actually make some progress today."

Brass cleared his throat as he stood. "Yeah, we have to go check out Samantha Guerin's apartment."

"I'll get my kit and meet you at the car," Sara said with a quick nod, then turned and left.

Already thinking about his work, Grissom shrugged vaguely and headed for the door.

"Gil."

Raising an eyebrow, he turned to find Brass two steps behind him. "Yeah, Jim."

Brass sighed, shaking his head. "About our, uh, discussion earlier . . . if I offended you or anything—"

Grissom held up his hand. "It's okay," he sighed. "I know you meant well. I just don't want people getting involved in my personal stuff."

Brass nodded slowly. "I haven't changed my mind, Gil. But regardless of what I think or you think, we need to call a truce here. We've got to work together."

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. Better to push the issue off to some future time, he figured. Besides, the case would suffer if they did not cooperate. "Let's just focus on the case for now, okay?" he said firmly. "We'll deal with that other stuff later."

"Okay," Brass nodded dismissively, and started to leave.

"Before we drop it, though," Grissom added quietly, "I just have one question."

Brass stopped and turned back to face him, left hand flexing.

"Why did you bring this whole issue to me now?" Grissom tilted his head, keeping his voice low. "I mean, you've had plenty of opportunities to confront me, or whatever."

"No particular reason," Brass shrugged. "I just, um . . ." His forehead creased as he sighed. "I just can't watch her fade anymore."

Grissom removed his glasses slowly, unsure of how to respond.

"Just do Sara a favor, and do some soul-searching, okay?" Brass sighed as he turned to leave.

Grissom lowered his gaze with a frown, then looked up to speak, but Brass was gone.

* * *

Dusty yellow sunlight filtered into the apartment through white curtains, illuminating its vintage green wallpaper in long bright shafts. A few prints of old French posters were tacked to the walls, and art and fashion magazines were stacked on the coffee table. A chipped glass vase sat on the small kitchen table, its red gerbera daisy withered. Eerily, the radio was still playing, jazz turned down low, its hazy reception dulling the edge of silence. 

"Artsy type," Sara commented as she and Brass entered the apartment.

"Yeah," Brass sighed vaguely, flipping open his notebook. "Samantha worked at a gas station as a cashier, but at night she was taking design courses at a community college."

Sara sat her kit on the kitchen table and flipped it open. "Did she live alone?"

"No roommates—just moved in two months ago. Her aunt says she was an independent young woman."

"Boyfriend?" Sara wondered, taking out her camera.

Brass nodded. "My guys talked to him, but we didn't think bringing him to the station would be useful. He's still in high school."

She glided into the living room, frowning slightly. "Is he an athlete?"

"Yeah." He glanced over his notebook again. "Varsity basketball. Why, is it probative?"

"Maybe." Sara paused by the door and lowered her camera. "The victims are all young and attractive, and they also all have masculine, athletic boyfriends."

"Part of his type?"

Sara nodded. "I think the killer may be frustrated sexually. Confident women with athletic boyfriends may represent something he can't attain, or something he hates."

"Maybe he's afraid of them," Brass suggested.

"It's possible. Also, the women were raped with a foreign object. This may mean their killer was trying not to leave DNA, but it also has psychological significance. It suggests a lack of virility, and a desire to completely dehumanize his victims, removing everything that made them free, vital individuals."

"Sick," Brass muttered, glancing sideways habitually. "You know," he mused, "if you're not in the system and not a possible suspect, you don't need to worry about DNA, right? So maybe our guy _is_ in the system, and he's afraid of a cold hit."

"Could be," Sara nodded thoughtfully. "Or, maybe he thinks if he doesn't leave anything behind, we can't tie him to the murders."

"Yeah, but you CSIs taught me they always leave something behind."

Sara smiled slightly, and glanced over the room. "This is just like Jamie Martin," she remarked. "No forced entry, minimal signs of struggle, no blood. Not much to process."

"Well, I'll shut up and let you do your thing," Brass nodded with a smile, stepping back into the undisturbed kitchen. He stood against the kitchen counter, watching Sara work. She had fallen silent, completely absorbed in her task, lithe frame gliding expertly across the dusty space. Brass tilted his head, noticing her sleek black turtleneck and the way the sunlight ran in golden threads through her dark hair. He could see her mind working at its brilliant, rapid pace, piecing everything before her into a perfect pattern.

She was beautiful.

_When did this happen to me?_

Brass flexed his fingers, eyes flickering with memory. It had been gradual, unspoken, growing in a corner of his mind lit only by her smile. The first sharp realization had come during the Allison Carpenter case almost three years before, when they went to the apartment of a possible suspect— Miguel Dorado, a hardened gang-banger. That was the only time he could remember being truly terrified. When he heard Sara's voice and looked up to see her facing Dorado, gun drawn, instinct and raw emotion had possessed him. Never had he handled a suspect with such ferocity. After, his words to Sara seemed stern, but the tone behind them was breathless fear and fury at himself for putting her at risk. The mixture of fear and shame on her face had nearly broken him. He wondered if she had noticed his hand almost brush her hair, then pull back, still lingering. At that moment, each emotion, memory and sensation had crystalized into a single, fragile thought—he could not endure without her.

Since then, Brass had sworn inwardly to never let anything happen to her. He had remained a quiet, protective force, always guarding, interfering only when she was in danger. It seemed that every sorrow in her life was fed by her broken childhood, or betrayal and rejection in the present. He had heard about her lying friend, and how the EMT she dated had used her.

And, of course, there was Grissom.

That issue was impossibly tangled, and Brass still was unsure of what the man was thinking. Did Grissom realize the pain he had caused her, or was he truly as oblivious as he seemed? Either way, he had led Sara in a cycle of empty insinuation and open rejection—too afraid to have her, and too jealous to let anyone else have her. If Grissom truly loved her, if he was strong enough for her, and if that was what Sara wanted, then Brass would step back. He would nurse his sorrow in silence, because he could not let his own feelings hurt her in any way.

But Grissom was not strong enough, and Sara was fading in front of him.

Brass sighed deeply, forehead creasing. The killer's threats had only intensified the urgency pressing on his mind. He knew Sara was doing much better with her alcohol issues, that counseling had helped her. Yet he could see the lingering shadow in her eyes, the void when her mind was not consumed with a case. Her smile that shattered like a blazing star had grown rare, visible only in faint glimmers of her old fire. It pained him. That was why he always tried to lighten her mood, to pull her back from the world's grit, but she needed more. It was time to do something.

"Are you okay?"

Brass glanced up quickly, startled from his thoughts. Sara was standing in front of him, kit in hand, her head tilted slightly. "You, uh, look a little distracted."

He shook his head, lowering his gaze with a smile. She was too sharp for him. "You get a lunch break today, right?" he asked hesitantly.

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Yeah."

"Well, I was thinking, there's this place near here that I've heard is really good. Lots of, ah, vegetarian dishes—"

A shadow of a smile glimmered across Sara's lips. "Jim, are you asking me out?"

Brass felt a faint blush on his face. "Yes."

"So ask me out."

He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Sara, would you like to have lunch with me?"

Sara's smile grew, warmer than he had seen from her in a long time. It made him catch his breath. "Sure," she replied quietly. "I'd love to."

Brass smiled warmly, almost with relief, mirroring her expression. It was the first step. "Then let's blow this popsicle stand, shall we?"

As they stepped out of the apartment building into the sunlit street, Brass' cellphone rang insistently. They stopped near the car, and Brass withdrew the phone from his jacket with an apologetic smile. "Yeah," he answered tersely.

"So the guardian angel finally decided to step out of the shadows, didn't you."

Brass frowned at the odd male voice coming from his cellphone, as Sara put her kit in the car. "Excuse me?"

"I could tell by the look on your face." A slight pause. "She's a beautiful woman, Captain. Look at her. Even if she _is _too old for me, I must admit, black really compliments her figure."

"Who the hell is this?" Brass hissed, tensing as he glanced sideways sharply.

"What is it?" Sara asked, tilting her head at his reaction.

An unnerving chuckle from the phone. "I think you both know the answer."

Brass stared at Sara and nodded hard. She understood his meaning, and folded her arms, moving slightly closer.

"Smart for a cop. Oh, and since I'm sure you're wondering—no, I don't have a gun trained on you. It's not my style. Too impersonal."

Brass' jaw tensed, and he glanced quickly around them, while still watching Sara. It was an average street in Henderson—nothing out of place. He needed to gain verbal control, if not physical control. At the very least he needed to extend the conversation—he might get some kind of information. Brass switched into full-fledged interrogation mode. "Guns are just a lot of noise, huh?" he said in a passive, subtle tone. "Anyone can cap somebody from yards away. Too much of a coward to come close and do it with their own hands, really get involved."

"Such people bring death, but are too afraid to look it in the eye as it screams out its last breath." The voice was cool and detached.

Brass' lip curled in revulsion, but he kept his voice calm. "So what is it about these women? What, you meet them at a bar and they turn you down? Or maybe you just like choosing random women to control, because it makes you feel powerful."

"Perceptive, Captain. That's the only shame in being successful—I won't get to see the master interrogator at work."

"So confident," Brass remarked quietly, voice hardened with ice. "I think you're closer to seeing my skill than you want to admit. After all, why go the next step if you're not in danger of being caught? What, do you really think we'll get scared and run away?"

"You know, you people make a good team," the voice continued, seemingly ignoring him. "You and your dear friend, Dr. Grissom, are the best I've come against. Impressive. If it wouldn't disrupt my schedule I'd stay around here for a while, just to watch you two puzzle over me like some great mystery." Another chuckle, darker than the first. "But your perfect team has a weakness, Captain. A weakness named Sara Sidle." Brass stared silently at Sara, meeting her worried gaze. "Yes, Captain, look at her. You should know that having a bitch on your team, especially such an unpredictable one, is a liability. You know her history. She's bound to make a mistake, or get worked up and breach protocol with a suspect."

Brass' hand clenched, and deadly ferocity flickered in his eyes. "When we find you," he growled, "you'll be damn lucky if _I _don't breach protocol and put a 9mm in your head."

A pause, broken by a faint dark laugh. "'The hope only / Of empty men.'" The phone went dead with a dull click.

Brass hung up quickly and whipped through his phone's menus to find the caller's number.

"Jim." Sara's voice was somber. "What did he say?"

As Brass located the number and dialed the police department, he sighed, gazing at her. She tilted her head with a frown. "Just . . . more of the same," he said quietly. "Nothing specific." In a few minutes he hung up with a quick nod. "The call came from a payphone just up the street," Brass said quickly as they got into the car. "Should've known he wouldn't give us a cellphone or house number."

"Well," Sara shrugged, "I'll dust it for prints, see if any priors pop up."

Brass nodded with a sigh as he started the car. "Just . . . stick with me, okay, Sara?"

Sara smiled slightly, pushing back a strand of hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

He smiled back, but his dark blue eyes were grim.

* * *

Glancing out his passenger-side window with a frown, Grissom pulled his Denali up to the curb beside Brass' unmarked car. The police department had called him shortly after receiving the call from Brass. Grissom was not making much progress with the victimology, anyway. After looking through each victims' calender and day planner, he had found nothing all of them had in common. There seemed to be no thread tying the five women together, except the man that killed them. He knew Sara certainly did not need his help processing the phone, but he still wanted to see it in person. It was so close to the killer. 

"Hey Jim," Grissom called as he slammed his car door.

Brass turned from where he stood by the old payphone, where Sara glanced was dusting for prints. "Hey Gil," Brass greeted, approaching him. "Had to come see for yourself?"

"The lab was quiet," Grissom shrugged as Brass stopped by the curb. He straightened his sunglasses, glancing over the small payphone booth and sidewalk around it. "So the killer called you?"

"Yeah," Brass sighed, lowering his voice so Sara could not hear. "Just a lot of threats, like the note. Especially against Sara."

Grissom frowned, folding his arms. "Specifics?"

"Nope." He glanced sideways warily. "Let's just say, he knows how to get personal."

"You mean about the team."

"Oh yeah. You'd think he'd been standing by our water-cooler for the past few years."

"That's odd," Grissom remarked, tilting his head. "A groupie, perhaps? Or somehow connected to the inside, maybe friends with someone in the lab."

Brass shrugged. "No idea. All I can tell you is, if it didn't interfere with his schedule, he'd like to stick around here for a while just to watch us squirm."

"Swell," Grissom frowned. "It's like, 'Let's kill the Vegas women, so we can meet the CSIs.'" He shook his head. "Anyway, what did the man sound like?"

"Well-educated," Brass said after thinking for a moment. "The voice itself was weird, sort of muffled."

"Trying to disguise his voice, maybe."

Brass nodded thoughtfully, then added, "Oh, and another thing. He could see us while he was talking."

"Hmm." Grissom walked over to the payphone. Sara was looking over the area just around it, for shoeprints or anything unusual. He stopped beside the phone and turned toward Samantha Guerin's apartment. "Where were you guys exactly?"

"At the base of the steps, near the curb," Brass explained, stepping closer.

Grissom tilted his head, squinting through his sunglasses. "How specific was this guy? From this distance I think I could pick out gender and clothing color, but not much else."

"He knew clothing color and what I was looking at. And he knew when Sara asked me what was up."

"Well," Grissom mused, "he must have had binoculars."

"Now I've got a question," Sara stated, turning from the street to face them. "Why the phone call?"

Grissom glanced at her and shrugged. "Could be an act of escalation. A killer's confidence grows each time they kill somebody and don't get caught. Making personal threats makes him feel powerful."

Brass frowned. "But there's a big difference between an anonymous letter to the _Review-Journal_ and a call to my personal cellphone."

"I know," Grissom admitted. "He's moving fast. Maybe the letter didn't give him the ego boost he thought it would, so he took it to the next step."

"I'm thinking that the killer is intimidated by men and strong women, and only feels powerful when he can dominate and control them in his own element," Sara remarked. "Object rape and dehumanization are his calling cards. I wouldn't think he'd be brave or aggressive enough to openly threaten us." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Unless making threats is like compensation for his fear—a way to make himself feel more powerful."

"You know," Brass mused, "I've heard a lot of guys blow smoke and try to sound scary, and I don't think this guy was playing around. He sounded dead serious."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he is, or maybe he's just a good actor. Of course, his selection of Sara as the chief object of his threats fits with the preliminary profile. He's misogynistic, and a professional women investigating his case would no doubt enrage him."

"But why bother making it personal?" Sara wondered. "Wouldn't harming me just be a detour from his grand schemes?" Her voice was calmly factual, but her face was solemn and paler than usual.

Grissom shifted uncomfortably at her tone, unwilling to consider her being harmed. "I don't know, Sara," he said quietly. "He's clever, but that doesn't mean he's logical."

"I know," Brass stated grimly, eyes hard. "He wants to undermine our investigation, and divide us personally. A blow to one of our own would be the quickest way."

Sara met his eyes firmly. "Nothing's going to stop us from solving this case. The killer can try whatever he wants, but we're going to get him. I'll make sure of it."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully, then said, "Well, we should be getting back to the lab. Sara, you can get those prints to Jacqui, then start working on the killer's psychological profile. It sounds like you're halfway there already."

"Um, okay," Sara agreed hesitantly, glancing at Brass with a faint apologetic shrug.

_Raincheck_, Brass mouthed with a smile for her, unnoticed by Grissom. "I'll sniff around here and see if anyone saw anything," he said aloud.

"If the prints turn up any priors, we'll call you," Grissom nodded. "Of course, any prints could be old or just a coincidence, but it's a start."

"It'll get you out of the lab, right Gil?" Brass quipped as he headed off down the sidewalk.

Grissom looked down the street toward Samantha Guerin's apartment, the street reflecting in his sunglasses.

_We're getting closer, and you know it._


	7. The Glass Connection

Grissom turned up the opera music pouring from his CD player, and surveyed the evidence table with a frown. He had gone over each of the victims' calenders and daily planners, and had found nothing all the women had in common. Two had made an appointment at the same hairdresser, and the first victim had gone on a date to the restaurant where the second victim worked, but there was no overlap between all five.

_What am I missing?_

Grissom took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then drummed his fingers on the table absently. He glanced at the victims' general profile he had written down.

_Female, 17-19, attractive, petite, slender. Middle to low economic status. Socially adjusted._

_In other words, just like a million other women._

He frowned, tilting his head. There were more differences between them than similarities. Two college students from different schools, one high school senior, a waitress and a cashier. Two blondes, two with brown hair, one with black. Four victims were apartment-dwellers; Lisa Bates lived with her parents. Only Samantha Guerin lived alone.

The killer had to have met them all somewhere. He knew where they lived, down to which apartment was theirs. Maybe he had been watching them for a while before taking action.

Grissom frowned and picked up the timeline of the kidnappings and murders. There was a twenty-five day interval between Lisa Bates' murder and Jamie Martin's kidnapping—between the three women in the Reno area and the women in the Las Vegas area. Once the killer started in a new location, his victims were kidnapped and murdered in rapid succession, with a week devoted to each.

_He picks his victims ahead of time._

That explained the twenty-five day gap. The killer became comfortable in an area, then selected his victims. When all three were chosen, he took them one at a time.

_But why those girls?_

Sighing, Grissom put down the timeline. He needed to keep going over the victims' information, and Sara had started working out the killer's profile. His mind wandered, and he wondered about the phone call the killer had made to Brass. Brass seemed fairly disturbed by it, and had not told Grissom the details of their conversation.

_He must have threatened Sara. More specifically than last time._

His jawline tensed as the thought entered his mind. He could not let anything happen to any member of his team, especially Sara.

Grissom's pager beeped loudly, startling him from his thoughts. He glanced at it quickly, then shut off his CD player and marched off down the hall to Questioned Documents. "So, what've we got?" he asked the technician inside, straightening his glasses.

Ronnie Litre shook his head, sliding the letter back into its plastic evidence bag. "There's nothing unusual about this document. I ran all the tests I have on it—it's got nothing I can individualize."

Grissom frowned. "The joys of modern printers."

"Exactly. Well-made and universal." Litre shrugged, handing Grissom the letter. "All I can tell you is your letter was printed using a standard inkjet."

"Paper?"

"Cheap copy paper, with a low weight and rag count. Again, not unusual." The technician shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but the Q.D. lab can't help you."

Grissom pulled out his pager as it beeped again."Well, thanks anyway," he said quickly, then darted off down the hall. He stopped in the fingerprint lab, where Jacqui Franco sat in front of a computer screen. "You got a hit off one of the prints?"

"Yep." Jacqui clicked a button on the screen, and a mug shot and list of personal information popped up. "Martin Scott, age thirty-five. He's a registered sex offender."

Grissom's jawline tensed. "What was his crime?"

"Three counts of rape, during the late eighties," Jacqui nodded. "Did fifteen years in prison. He just moved to Vegas two weeks ago."

"From where?"

"Sparks."

Grissom bit his lip, forehead creasing. "Jacqui, what's his current address?"

Jacqui glanced up at him grimly. "Henderson. On the same street as your last vic."

Grissom's eyes narrowed sharply. "I'll call Brass."

* * *

Sara gazed through the one-way glass at the man in the interrogation room, her arms folded tightly. It was Martin Scott, the convicted rapist whose fingerprints she had found on the payphone used to call Brass. The man was average-looking, but there was a harsh, hostile air to him. He gave her a bad feeling. 

Frowning, Sara's mind drifted. The killer's threats disturbed her, hanging in a hissing shadow at the edge of her thoughts. She was not afraid—that would compromise her ability to work—but it did unnerve her. Sara knew she could defend herself, though, and that her friends were also there to protect her.

Sara sighed as her thoughts shifted to personal matters. Brass' invitation had created strange feelings in her. It was nothing she had ever imagined, but something about it drew her. It was like a second chance, an offer without angst, demands or judgment. There was an honesty in him, a strength and gentle concern that she knew she could trust. Brass was just himself, weathered but real, with no masks and no excuses. No hiding, repressed, behind a facade of coldly scientific rationality.

Not like Grissom.

Sara wondered why she had hung on for so long, clinging to an ideal she saw within him that he could never be. A bitter smile twisted her lips as she recalled what her counselor had said, about unobtainable men. Grissom was the pinnacle of unobtainability, at least when it came to her. She wondered if he had ever loved her, or if it had only been attraction, turned back by the fear of risking too much. If all the quiet words and subtle glances had meant nothing. As much as warmth still brushed her spine when he was near, Sara knew the road that chased after Grissom went nowhere. It led only to more pain and self-doubt. And though she would still care about him, and be as much of a friend as they ever had been, she knew it was the end. Whatever had or had not happened would be locked away in her mind's attic. Grissom would be left in some gloomy corner of his own making, picking through regrets like ragged old photographs. Sara would forget, and, in some future when the pain subsided, laugh and cry over it in the dusty light of deep blue eyes.

_I'm not afraid to let you go anymore._

Sara let out her breath slowly, feeling the tightness in her chest slowly lessen. It would not be easy, but she had to move forward. She could not lose herself again.

The viewing room door opened and shut with a metallic click, and Sara glanced sideways to see Grissom enter beside her. "Hey," he greeted absently, flipping through a few sheets of paper.

"Hey," Sara returned, refocusing on the case. "So, whose idea was it to keep me out of there?"

"Brass', actually," Grissom shrugged, "but I agree with him. You shouldn't be in there if this is our guy."

Sara shook her head. "I think he's a creep, but I don't think he's our killer. I mean, the killer left no DNA, prints, or trace anywhere— why would he leave fingerprints on the phone?"

"I don't know." Grissom tilted his head thoughtfully. "Maybe he didn't realize we could track the call, or maybe he just made a mistake."

"Because he's moving so fast," she suggested. "That's when serials slip up." Sara thought for a moment, then added, "Oh yeah. Did Q.D. get anything off the killer's letter to the _Review-Journal_?"

Grissom shook his head. "Ronnie Litre tells me it's from a standard inkjet printer, on cheap paper. Other than that, he can't help us."

"So then all we have is a shard of glass."

"That and a profile."

The door of the interrogation room swung open, and Brass entered with his casually strong stride. He walked over to the table where Martin Scott sat, threw down the police file, and stood with his hands against the table. Scott glanced up at his demanding presence, silent and unflinching.

"So, you like to rape college girls," Brass stated, quietly passive tone contrasting with his blunt words. He flicked open the police file with a sharp motion. "Sandra Brooks, Kim Gallivan, Debbie Rosco. All freshman at UNLV in the late eighties. You were a tutor there, right?" Scott did not respond. "You earned their trust, then drugged and assaulted each of them, one by one. The drugs blocked their memory, but not the DNA." Brass tilted his head, ferocious eyes contradicting his disarming expression. "Because of those three little letters, you ended up in the joint for fifteen years. Shame. Worst thing is, it didn't teach you anything. I mean, some habits are just too tough to break, huh Martin."

Scott leaned back slightly and folded his arms, a faint sneer of cold defiance twisting his face. "What's this about?"

"Samantha Guerin, for starters." Brass held up a photograph of the young woman, a few inches away from Scott's face. "Look familiar?"

"She's cute," Scott shrugged.

"She's dead," Brass retorted, slipping the photo into the police file. "And, interestingly enough, she also lived right up the street from you."

"Demographics don't make me a killer."

"Ouch, big word," Brass remarked sarcastically. "I might have to break out my Merriam-Webster's." He leaned almost imperceptibly closer, eyes gun-barrel cold. "I've got a word for _you_: Harassment." Brass straightened with ominous slowness and flipped through the police file. "Eight calls were made to Samantha Guerin's apartment over the course of a week, from a payphone nearby. The same day that she received the last call, Samantha was kidnapped. Her killer also used the same phone to place a threatening call to LVPD."

Scott shrugged with disinterest. "And this involves me how?"

"Don't play stupid," Brass sneered, tone rising slightly to a hardened confrontation. "We found your prints on the phone."

"It's a public—"

"You live right next door. Why would you use a payphone if you live there?" Brass started moving around the room, his presence compelling. "Oh, wait, I know why. It's so no one could trace the calls to you. But you screwed up and left your prints behind. And you did so well with the bodies, too."

"Whoa, hang on." Scott held up his hands, eyes wide. "You don't think I—"

"So are we going to find payphones with your prints on them at the other victim's apartments, too? Since you just moved here from Sparks two weeks ago."

"I used to live there, yeah. But I didn't kill—"

Brass paused behind Scott's back, voice dropping to an unnerving quiet. "Maybe you only called Samantha, just to be friendly, right? Or, maybe you did more than that. Maybe rape isn't enough for you anymore, and now you need to kill. Is that it?"

"I didn't kill anyone," Scott growled. "And if I was going to kill a girl, don't you think it would be one of—"

"One of your victims?" Brass suggested, lip curling in a sneer as he slid around to the side of the table, leaning forward menacingly.

"Yeah," Scott admitted sharply, then shook his head. "I called Samantha because she gave me her number at a club. She was busy with exams, so we were going to go out in a couple weeks or so. And I used that payphone when I moved into my apartment, before my phone service was hooked up." He rolled his eyes at Brass' raised eyebrow. "Look, I went through all kinds of rehab. It worked for me. I don't . . . _think_ like that anymore, and I don't appreciate you people giving me this crap." He stood quickly, moving around the side of the table opposite Brass, and headed for the door. "If you're not charging me with anything, I'm leaving. You can contact my lawyer."

"Do you like to read?" Brass asked quietly, gazing into the one-way glass.

Scott paused in the doorway and raised an eyebrow. "Besides _Playboy_, not really. Why?"

"I'm thinking of something a little more high-culture," Brass continued, glancing over his right shoulder at Scott. "Poetry, that kind of thing."

"Do I look like I read poetry?" Scott asked with irritation.

"Do I look like I go by appearances?" Brass returned. "Actually, I did some sniffing around, and I found out that you were an English major in college. Wrote this nice paper on twentieth-century poets. T. S. Eliot, in particular."

Scott shook his head. "I liked his philosophies. Is that a crime?"

"Pretty gloomy stuff. _The Hollow Men_, _The Waste Land_ . . ."

"Is there a point to this?" he demanded, folding his arms.

"No, not at all," Brass said innocently. "Just trying to expand my literary knowledge."

Scott rolled his eyes, and started to leave. "All right, I'm out of here."

"Don't go far," Brass warned. Scott paused in the doorway, defiance draining under Brass' fierce gaze. Then he shook his head with disgust and left.

Brass looked toward the one-way glass and shrugged, then went around the corner into the viewing room to meet them.

"We've got nothing connecting this guy to the murders," Sara stated as he shut the door.

"Yeah." Brass rubbed his temple wearily. "He looks good for it, but there's no real evidence. A few fingerprints on the payphone aren't enough. We can't even prove who made the calls to Samantha." He shrugged dismissively. "My guys will check out the phone angle, and see if we can figure out what he's been up to for the past several weeks. We'll keep an eye on him."

"Well," Grissom mused, "even if he's not our guy, he could still be involved."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking he could be a partner, like John Mathers and the Blue Paint Killer." She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"This is a solo job," Brass agreed.

Grissom's pager went off, and he glanced at it quickly. "Hodges got the results on the one-  
way glass I ordered," he remarked. "You know what that means."

"Field trip," Sara nodded.

Brass glanced at her and smiled. "I'll bring the picnic."

* * *

Pale sunlight seeped into the warehouse through a few high windows, competing with its bluish-toned artificial lights. Glass and mirror sheets filled the vast space in long rows, reflecting its drab metal and concrete in a sleek, ghostly kaleidoscope. A sparrow that had wandered in chirped from the rafters, lone voice echoing in the quiet. Grissom, Sara and Brass stood near the door, next to the company's owner. 

"So," Grissom asked, "how long has Sierra Glass been in business?"

"Since 1965," Ray Brentwood said proudly. "Right now, we're the largest distributor in southern Nevada. We sell mostly to contractors, but we have a few individual customers, too."

Brass flexed his fingers. "What about your one-way glass? I mean, it can't be as common as regular glass, right?"

Brentwood glanced at him with a flicker of a smile. "You're right—it is less common. One-  
way glass is used mostly by businesses, in maybe an office or breakroom, or somewhere that looks out over the employees. Police and mental health places use it, too. It's rarely used by individuals in homes."

"We found a shard of one-way glass from this store on a homicide victim," Sara stated.

"That's strange." Brentwood tilted his head, and his eyes widened. "Wait, is this one of the Silver State Strangler's victims?"

"If that's what they're calling him, yes," Grissom nodded.

Brentwood shook his head in disbelief. "God. It's all over the news. How did my glass end up on the victim?"

"That's what we'd like to know," Brass replied.

Grissom raised an eyebrow at Brass' stern tone, then said, "Mr. Brentwood, we'd like to take a look at your customer and employee records."

"Sure," Brentwood nodded quickly. "Whatever I can do to help. They're mostly on computer, but they're not too organized. Looking through them could take awhile."

"We're patient," Sara said quietly.

At that moment, Brass' cellphone rang. He pulled it out and turned away from them slightly. "Yeah," he answered curtly, and Sara noticed his expression darken. He gazed at her, dark blue eyes intense. "Okay. We'll be there shortly." Brass hung up, then stated with a sigh, "That was Stuart Williams from the _Review-Journal_. They've received another letter."

"He knows we traced the phone call," Grissom muttered. "Now he's back to snail mail."

"Yeah." Brass shook his head. "Well, I'm gonna go pick it up."

Grissom glanced at Sara. "Why don't you go with. I'll bring these records back to the lab, and you can meet me there after."

"Okay," Sara nodded, and she and Brass left.

"Another threat?" Brentwood wondered. "I saw the first one in the paper. I mean, they only printed part of it, but it sounded pretty bad."

"Yeah." Grissom shook his head. "So, records . . . ?"

"Right this way." Brentwood led him into a small office, filled with papers and one computer.

Grissom sat down at the desk, turned on the computer, and started poking through the files for the correct records.

"Sorry for the disorder," Brentwood apologized, then offered, "Would you like a cup of coffee? I've got instant."

"Sure," Grissom nodded, peering at the screen. He glanced down the list for a few minutes, then asked, "You wouldn't happen to have these records on disc, would you?"

"Actually, we do," Brentwood nodded, handing Grissom a steaming mug of coffee. "Just backed up the system last week."

"Excellent. Then I'll just copy the discs and be on my way."

As Grissom got to work, Brentwood sat in a nearby chair. "So, how can you figure out which guy the glass came from?"

"We'll look over the names and run them through our system," Grissom explained. "If any prior offenders show up, we'll have a potential suspect."

"And all you have to go on is glass?"

"Right now, yes." Grissom drank his coffee, and finished up with the discs. As soon as he had finished, he said, "Thanks for your help, Mr. Brentwood."

"Of course," Brentwood nodded as Grissom started to leave. "Anything you need." Grissom barely heard him, mind wrapped up in the possibility that he was holding the killer's name in his hand.


	8. A Game of Chess

Dim light shone coldly into the sleek modern office, grey from the gathering clouds. Stuart Williams flicked on a lamp with a blue glass shade, hands moving nervously. "I don't know why this guy keeps sending these messages to my newspaper," he muttered. "We want information, but this is starting to creep me out."

Sara picked up the sheet of paper with her slender gloved hands. "Mr. Williams, one objective of a serial killer is creating fear. It makes him feel more powerful. Sending it to civilians, like a newspaper, has a greater effect."

"But the messages are directed at you guys. Why send them to us?"

"When we catch him, I'll ask," Brass replied. "If you'd prefer, you can tell your post office to forward them to us."

"Okay," Williams nodded, then glanced around as if he was disoriented. "I need to get back to work. We're doing a big political story right now—married senator's been running around with some showgirls. Big scandal. Anyway, I'll call you if we get another letter." Then the editor darted out, nearly slamming the door behind him.

"Muckrakers," Brass muttered.

Sara glanced at him and smiled slightly. Their smiles faded, and he sighed and moved closer. Sara held the letter so they could both read.

_Still you persist. I don't know what you're thinking. Is it that you want to get rid of her, but having me do it is easier for you? You people aren't thinking. You'll continue with your messed-up investigation, but you won't drop the thing that's compromising it. She has no discipline, no control. She's grown up damaged, so she doesn't understand the submissive role of women. Her bitch mother screwed that up forever. Little slut's probably waiting around to kill one of you, just like her mother did._

_So go ahead. Keep chasing me, if you don't fear the consequences. And if you're worried about mine, I'm working on number six now. She'll be yours soon._

_And we shall play a game of chess,  
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door._

Brass' hand clenched as his eyes traced Sara's delicate profile. Every year wore out his face in a mask of weathered hardship, and the edge of fear darkened his eyes. He knew she was strong, but there was still an innocence to her, a pure spirit hidden behind streaming vaults of pain. She could withstand a thousand blows, but break at a whisper.

"Sara," Brass said softly.

"I can't let him scare me," Sara stated, sliding the letter into an evidence bag. "I have to do my job without worrying about my safety."

"_Are _you afraid?"

Sara looked up at him, soft brown eyes mirroring his somber expression. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "But so are you." Brass gazed at her silently. "I think that's why you were so tough with that suspect today. You wanted him to be the killer."

"Yeah," Brass sighed. "I was pushing pretty hard, on mostly circumstantial evidence. I kept hoping that he would say it, that he would slip up and give us some clue, or even confess. I wanted to lock him up in some hole somewhere, so he could never harm anyone. So you'd be safe." He shook his head. "It just . . . bothers me to think that I may not be able to protect you from this guy."

"I know. You're always looking out for me, like a guardian angel or something." A slight smile crossed her lips as she put the letter and her gloves into her kit.

Brass bit his lip as she unknowingly used the killer's phrase. He glanced away with a faint smile and shook his head. "I'm no angel."

"Neither am I," Sara said quietly, meeting his gaze. Brass tilted his head, remembering his similar exchange with Grissom. A lifetime had passed since then. "You know," Sara remarked, as they headed toward the parking lot, "the thing that bothers me the most is that he knows about . . . about my parents." She frowned darkly, shaking her head. "Maybe he has access to police files, or newspaper records, or—"

"Sara," Brass interrupted gently, dread pressed tight against his throat. "What happened? Your father, did he . . . hurt your mother, or you . . ."

"He abused my mother," Sara stated softly, memory's scent gnawing at her coldly.

"So . . . she killed him, didn't she." Brass winced as Sara nodded slowly. He touched her arm. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Are you—"

"No," Sara sighed, "I'm not really okay. I think I've made as much peace with it as I can, at this point. It just hangs in the back of my mind." She shook her head with a bitter smile as they stepped outside. The rain had started, falling lightly in cool, gleaming drops. "How fitting," she remarked, gesturing to the sky. "My raindrops never really go away, do they."

Brass gazed at her softly. "You know, I really only mind rain when I'm alone. If I have someone to go through it with me, it's okay." Sara glanced at him, the drops catching in her dark hair. The world was grey and silent except for the patter of the rain. Brass took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, flexing his hand. Everything that had happened over the past six years flashed through his mind. It seemed fast, yet it had been building for a long time. Something in her eyes told him that he should not wait any longer. "Sara," he said quietly as they reached the car. "Could you, ah, help me with something?"

"Anything," Sara replied, freezing him briefly with her eyes' intensity.

"There's this girl I used to know, a long time ago," Brass began slowly. "She had this smile like . . . like the sun, so warm and bright, like nothing could ever stop it. There was this brilliance, this fire in her eyes. She's the most beautiful person I've ever known." He paused, gazing at her. "But I haven't seen her in a long time. I think she's lost, but I'm looking for her, and I'm willing to do anything to find her. Will you help me find her, Sara?" Slowly he reached up and brushed her cheek with his weathered hand. Her skin was warm beneath the rain's coolness. "Will you help me find that woman still smiling inside you? I know we've both seen a lot, that life has burned and beaten us down in different ways. I mean, I'm not perfect, but I just . . ." Brass paused, staring into her soft brown eyes, finger trembling against her cheek. Sara gazed at him in silence, and he noticed a single tear roll past her eyelashes, melding with the rain. Eyes widening, he lowered his hand, afraid that he had hurt her somehow. "Oh God, I'm sorry . . ."

"Jim." Slowly Sara took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. Her eyelids fell like dark butterflies as her lips brushed his palm. Brass blinked hard, pushing back the rain, searching her face. He moved closer as his arm slipped around her slender waist and hers brushed his neck. Slowly he leaned forward, closing his own eyes and catching his breath at her nearness. He thought he would drown in the scent of her as their lips nearly touched.

Suddenly, his cellphone rang, fracturing the grey silence. "Damn it," Brass muttered, straightening reluctantly and fumbling through his pockets for the phone. Sara pushed back a dark strand of hair, half-startled at her own response. Her faint, rain-soaked smile faded at the insistent ring—it was never good news. "Yeah," Brass answered, then met her eyes grimly. She knew without him saying a word. "Okay. We're on our way." He hung up and slid the phone into his pocket, glancing sadly at the sky.

"It's only been six days," Sara said quietly.

"Then he's accelerating," Brass sighed. "It's been confirmed as our M.O. This is the sixth victim."

* * *

Rain ran in quick cold streams down the tree branches, pooling at the road's edge in dirty, leafy puddles. Light wind tossed the branches in a slow dance, brushing like gritty silk across the dead woman's pale, freckled skin. Her red hair was scattered around her head in thick ragged waves, clumped and darkened by the gathering water. The distinctive ligature marks encircled her slender neck, with six small cuts below it. Flashes from Sara's camera illuminated the body in crisp succession, outlining every bruise and cut with sterile detail. 

Grissom pulled up the collar of his blue forensics windbreaker as he looked down at the body, rain dripping off the brim of his baseball cap. He glanced sideways at Brass, who was standing silently as the rain rolled slowly down his overcoat. "Who found her?" Grissom asked quietly.

"A female motorist," Brass sighed, fingers flexing. "Noticed something weird, then pulled over and called us. She's clear." He shook his head. "I mean, the body's pretty close to the road. It's not like he was trying to hide her."

"It's part of his pattern," Sara commented, glancing up from the body. "Acceleration and escalation. The victims end up closer to the road, and the rate that he kidnaps and kills them increases." She straightened, pushing back her rain-slicked hair. "I'm thinking the rain has something to do with it. For all the other victims, it was raining when the bodies were dumped. The only exception is victim number two, Julie Palermo, who appeared to have been hosed off."

"The killer's covering his tracks," Brass remarked.

Grissom nodded thoughtfully. "Jim, do we have an ID yet?"

"Yeah," Brass nodded. "Jillian Edwards, from Vegas. She's seventeen. Her mother reported her missing six days ago."

"That's the same day we found Samantha Guerin," Sara frowned.

"Fits with the idea that the victims are all pre-selected," Grissom added.

Brass frowned. "So what does this guy do, go to an area and shop around for victims, then get to work on them one by one?"

Grissom shrugged. "Seems like it." He peered up at the unrelenting sky and sighed. "Well, if our killer is still working in threes, this will be his last victim in Clark County."

"Guys." Sara squatted back down, placing her camera inside her kit. Carefully she reached beneath the body with her long tweezers, and withdrew a folded sheet of white paper. She unfolded it and glanced at it grimly, then held it up for the two men to see. Two short lines of text marked the center of the page.

_One last thing before I go—  
I will show you fear in a handful of dust._

Brass gazed at Sara, caressing her protectively with his eyes as they exchanged knowledge in silent communication. He glanced sideways alertly, squaring his shoulders.

"_The Waste Land_," Grissom nodded slightly, studying the second line. "From the first section, 'The Burial of the Dead.'"

"One-track mind," Brass muttered. "I guess he has limited taste in poetry."

Sara slid the paper into an evidence bag, soft brown eyes downcast. "Confirms that he's moving on to another area."

"And that he intends to harm someone else first," Grissom frowned, glancing at Brass. "What did the letter to the _Review-Journal_ say?"

Brass sighed, gazing at the wet ground. "Mostly threats against Sara, but it didn't name her or give any specifics," he said, lowering his voice. "It, uh, did mention her parents, though."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "You know about . . ."

"Now I do. And apparently the killer does, too."

Sara stood, closing up her kit, her eyes grim. "He knows forensics, he has access to chloroform and one-way glass, the victims let him in, and he has access to police records."

"You think he's in law enforcement," Grissom suggested.

She shook her head. "Not currently. I think he's maybe a dirty cop, or maybe retired. He could also be a disgraced criminalist, or even a student who failed the Academy's entrance exam." Sara shrugged. "I just think he was involved in the system somehow. Of course, if he's . . . determined enough, he could have gotten old newspapers. But I don't think the rest can be explained by coincidence."

"I hate to say this, but I tend to agree with you," Brass nodded with a sigh. "Too many factors pointing toward it." His cellphone rang, and yanked it out of his coat, and answered it. "Yeah." A pause. "Really. Tell him to stay put. We'll be there in a few minutes." Brass hung up and glanced at them with a raised eyebrow. "We have a guest at P.D."

"Who?" Grissom frowned.

"Martin Scott."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "The rapist."

"Yeah," Brass nodded. "Apparently he wants to talk."

* * *

"Mr. Scott." 

Martin Scott stood quickly and spun around, finding himself face to face with a steel-eyed Brass.

"Sit down," Brass ordered in a low cold voice.

Scott complied and added with a frown, "Look, I came to you."

"Yeah, you did." Brass remained standing, fingers flexing. "So why are you here exactly?"

"About an hour after I left here, my phone rang," Scott began. "It was this guy who was in prison with me, a few cells down—Josh. I haven't talked to him since he got out, even before I did. It's not like we were friends—he was kind of a creep."

Brass raised an eyebrow. "A creep. This is the three-time rapist talking."

Scott folded his arms defensively. "Josh was there for raping a woman—with the handle of a hammer, he said. He was always muttering about how he would do better next time, read some books before doing anything."

"Did he say anything specific back then?"

"Yeah. Something about a trinity." Scott shrugged. "I figured he was either Catholic or a _Matrix_ fan."

Brass' jawline tensed, and he sat down slowly. _Trinities . . ._ "What did this Josh tell you on the phone?"

"He told me that I made an excellent red herring, and to keep it up," Scott continued. "He said he was moving on, as soon as he finished up some business."

"Did you ask what he was talking about?" Brass felt foreboding tighten his chest.

"Yeah, but he said if I watch the news I already know."

Brass' mouth twitched, twisting in an angry curl. "Go on."

"Josh asked if I would lend him a fingerprint. He said if I kept helping him out, there would be benefits. I told him I wasn't going to land in jail to help him, and that he could keep his money. He said he wasn't offering money."

"What was he offering?" Brass' eyes narrowed, focusing his fierce stare.

"I'm not sure. He said something about a used bitch that I might find entertaining, but I said no way."

"Her name," Brass commanded.

Scott shook his head. "He didn't tell me. I told him to go to hell, then I hung up."

Brass leaned forward menacingly. "So why do you feel compelled to share this with us, huh? You making this up?"

"No," Scott stated firmly, anger darkening his face. "How would it help me?"

"I don't know," Brass shrugged disarmingly, standing. "Maybe you can tell me."

Scott also stood, shaking his head in disbelief. "Honestly? I came to tell you because I figured you would find out that he called me, and then I'd wind up in prison again. That's it. I'm leaving now."

"What's this guy's full name?" Brass demanded, louder tone matching his fierce gaze.

"Josh Hunter," Scott stated, then marched out the door.

* * *

"Yeah, Grissom." 

"Where are you?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow at Brass' curt tone from his cellphone, swiveling in his office chair. "I'm in the computer lab, going over the Sierra Glass records. No hits yet, but I'm—"

"Screw the records. I got a name off Martin Scott."

"How does he—"

"Just run the name," Brass insisted. "Josh Hunter."

"Okay." Grissom pulled up the police database and punched in the name. "I got a hit," he remarked, scanning the information on the screen. "Josh Hunter, age thirty-seven. One prior for rape, served his full sentence."

"Look at the picture." Brass' tone was strained.

Tilting his head, Grissom's eyes shifted to the mugshot. He stared, noticing the average build, faded brown hair, and slightly grizzled mustache. He had just seen that face a few hours before, in a quiet warehouse over coffee.

"Look familiar?"

"Son of a bitch," Grissom cursed darkly, jawline tightening. "It's Ray Brentwood."


	9. Face to Blade

**Author's note: I apologize for the wait and the slightly shorter length. I've been highly busy wrapping up this semester. I'll probably be slow with the next update, also due to college. Please be patient, and keep commenting! ---_Emihn_  
**

* * *

The warehouse door smashed open, shattering the echoing silence in dusty wooden splinters. Black-clothed officers stormed through the jagged opening, weapons ready, plowing in opposite directions through the vast dark space. Brass charged in after them, suit coat stretched taut across his shoulder blades, every line of his body rigidly alert. Flashlight and gun braced in front of him, he strode slowly forward, turning sharply at any faint noise or shadowed corner. His triple reflection, flashlight-haloed, crashed in sleek cold steel against the gleaming rows of glass and mirrors.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

Brass stopped as he reached the worn metal wall, turned and holstered his gun. "Good job, guys," he sighed as the SWAT team went back outside.

Grissom peered in the doorway, backlit by the squad cars' rhythmic glow, his own flashlight casting a white ray across the concrete floor. "So he's not here."

"Nope," Brass replied tersely.

"So then Brentwood—Hunter—knew we were coming," Grissom frowned. "He must have figured Martin Scott would contact us." He paused, head tilted, scanning the silent warehouse. "Why even _call _Scott, if he's just some random guy from prison?"

"I don't know." Brass sighed, shaking his head. "I mean, we're going on the word of an ex-con here."

"I think Scott is telling the truth," Grissom mused. "If Hunter isn't hiding something, why is he going by an alias, and running from us?"

Brass nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm thinking Hunter is our killer, but maybe he's in cahoots with Scott somehow."

"Could be. Did you check out Sierra Glass' business credentials?"

"Yeah. It's a legitimate business. Everything's in order, and all the employees check out. Looks like just Hunter was living a lie."

Gnawing on his lip, Grissom ambled toward the office. "Well, let's see if he left us anything." He peered in, tracing the shelves and papers with his flashlight. Slipping on his latex gloves, he went inside and started flipping through the papers. "Hey Jim."

Brass stepped in after him, holding up his own flashlight. "What've you got?"

"A little light reading, perhaps?" Grissom pulled out a slender leather-bound book. "_The Essential T.S. Eliot_."

"Interesting choice." Brass tilted his head, glancing at the book. "Anything unusual?"

Grissom flipped through the pages slowly. "Well, I've got a few underlined passages." He glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "They're the same quotations used by the killer."

"Congratulations, Darwin. You found the missing link," Brass sighed wryly. "Scott studied Eliot's poetry in college, but this is more specific."

"Unless Scott _is_ lying, and planted the book," Grissom shrugged dispassionately. "We'll dust it for prints, anyway." He shook his head as he slid the book into an evidence bag. "You know, finding this guy is not going to be easy."

Brass nodded. "Hunter's got a Nevada license, but no vehicle registered in his name, or under the name Ray Brentwood. No home address, either. We've checked out family, company vehicles, the works. Everything is accounted for."

"So he's using an unregistered vehicle," Grissom mused. "Maybe one with fake plates? Or maybe just a vehicle belonging to some friend we don't know about." He thought for a moment, forehead creasing pensively. "Where are the other warehouses?"

"Here in Vegas, then Elko, Pahrump, and Sparks."

"Sparks," Grissom repeated, tilting his head. "One of our victims was from Sparks. Two were from Reno, right next door."

"Right," Brass nodded, catching on. "And he has a place here, right near where the last three victims lived."

"Samantha Guerin had one-way glass from this store in her wound. Maybe he keeps the victims in or near his warehouses." Grissom glanced curiously across the vast space. "We need to go over every inch of these places."

Brass nodded thoughtfully, following Grissom's line of vision. "By the way, where's Sara?"

"At the sixth victim's apartment," Grissom replied as he stepped out of the office.

"Alone?" Brass strode quickly after him, jawline tensing.

"No," Grissom shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "I sent an officer with her."

"_One_ officer." Brass shook his head sharply. "Gil, the killer is threatening her. Do you think one clueless cop can protect her?"

Grissom paused, eyes widening slightly. "Sara . . . Sara's fine. I—"

"No, it's not fine," Brass retorted, whipping out his cellphone. Quickly he dialed Sara's number, then waited. He stared across the dark space as the phone rang and rang, ending with the stark finality of her voicemail's beep.

* * *

Orange light from the street shone fitfully through the blinds into the darkened apartment, scattering dimly across the living room. It caught on a glass of water on the end table, gleaming in faded ripples on the empty couch. A single poster from a science fiction film hung on the beige wall, characters obscured by shadow except for eerily white teeth and unnatural blue eyes. The dull roar of a passing car filtered through the night's silence, blending with the incessant noise of a neighbor's television. 

Sara closed her kit with a snap, making a final sweep across the room with her flashlight. It was the same as all the others—no forced entry, minimal signs of struggle. Nothing unusual.

_Just like all the others_.

The telephone rang, startling Sara with its loudness. After four rings, the answering machine picked up. Sara shook her head as Jillian Edward's voice invited the caller to leave a message. The machine beeped loudly, followed by a space of silence and static. She shifted slightly at the empty gap.

"Sara Sidle. We finally meet."

Sara turned slowly to face the machine, flashlight gleaming white in her hand. She gripped it tightly, frowning at the distorted male voice.

"Your dear friends just missed me, unfortunately for them. We could have had an interesting conversation. But, I thought it was fitting for me to address you directly at this point. The men don't seem to understand. They're under your spell, so to speak." A slight chuckle. "What a pair of admirers they make. A scientist and a cop, both brilliant in their field. Las Vegas' finest. It amazes me, looking at you, that these men are affected so strongly. I mean, seriously. If you're the most beautiful person he's ever known, he mustn't know many people."

Silent, Sara felt her mouth twitch. He had no right to use Brass' words, to insult them.

"Of course, this happy little triangle helps me out. They're going to tear each other apart. You know that, right? Sad, really. Best friends grown to hate each other. When the good Dr. Grissom finds out about your pending dalliance with the captain, he's going to be seriously angry. So much for the investigation, huh?"

Senses sharpened, she slid her right hand slowly along the grip of her gun.

A darker laugh, tone like bloodied steel. "It's okay. You don't have to talk to me. You know, that's the problem with you. You've got this attitude like you're something special. Like you're some kind of brilliant investigator. You're a stuck-up bitch. You're just like your mother."

Sara bit her lip, cold tracing down her back.

"Laura Sidle. Now, she really didn't understand the role of women. That's the worst kind—the kind that refuse to learn, refuse to submit, no matter how strongly the man asserts his natural authority. Your poor father. He wasn't smart enough to throttle the bitch before she stabbed him." A pause, empty except for faint static.

The memory hissed maliciously in her ear, reemerging in a blood-scented cloud that threatened to drown her. Sara swallowed hard, trying to push it back.

"And you saw him right after she blew sliced him up, huh. Blood everywhere. Even the cop couldn't take it. So, daddy's in the morgue, and mommy's in the joint. With an examples like that, I'm not surprised you turned out so screwed up." He laughed coldly. "Ah, the beauty of genetics. A weak father and a knife-toting bitch mother kind of dictate where you're headed, don't you think?"

Sara's knuckles turned white around her flashlight, the words turning her heart to ice. It was a lingering fear at the edge of her memories—and one of the forces that drove her to swing toward the opposite, and become a criminalist.

"Do you really think you can escape it? Forget about it and it's gone? That's not how it works. You've got lead and murder in your veins, as deep as DNA."

_Our past creates us, Sara. _

She took a deep breath as Brass' words from what seemed like years before came back to her.

_You can't be blamed for anything that's happened, that's made you what you are. But the past is only a blueprint. You get to decide what you become._

Sara straightened her shoulders, releasing her breath in a sigh as the cold in her heart started to fade. Her eyes flashed fire as her spirit rose in defiance of the killer's words. Who would she believe—Brass, or a serial killer? She had to force herself to believe Brass.

"So what are you going to do?" the voice continued with quiet malice. "What's finally going to make you explode? A misogynist suspect? Maybe you'll shoot your formerly beloved Dr. Grissom in a fit of rage. Or, if your precious Jim looks at you sideways, maybe you'll shoot him. How about in his sleep, just like your coward mother?"

_Shut the hell up, you bastard_, Sara muttered fiercely to herself. The fear that his words were true still gnawed at her, but she knew she could not heed them. It would be fatal.

"You're a liability, Sara Sidle. But I'm afraid your male companions aren't man enough to put you in your place, so it's become my job. Almost chivalrous, don't you think?

Sara glanced around the room, finding everything still dark and unmoving. Her mind began to refocus sharply on her present situation.

_I need to get out of here._

"You might want to look out the window."

Biting her lip, Sara turned slightly to peer between the blind slats. As she did, she saw the single squad car speed off screaming down the road, slicing night's tense thickness. Her SUV stood in the driveway leading to the apartment like a dark monolith.

"Looks like it's just you and me now." The message ended with a sharp beep.

Sara drew her gun and slid her flashlight into her forensics vest, grabbing her kit with her other hand. Mind working rapidly, she weighed her options. She had no idea where the killer was exactly—if he was across the street, or even in the same building. She could call for backup, but by the time anyone got there, she could already be dead. She could call Brass, but he could not get there in time, either.

_As soon as I get a few blocks away, I'll call him. Right now I need to focus. I still need to do my job._

Ears straining for any sound, gun ready, Sara slowly made her way out of the apartment and into the corridor. A few flickering lights shone on the dated carpet and beige walls, casting a sickly yellow glow. Danger screamed at her with each step, each creak of the floor, drowning the pounding of her heart.

After what seemed like ages, Sara reached the door. She put down her kit for a moment, and pressed the button to unlock her SUV. Jumping slightly at the clicking beep, she picked up her kit again, braced her gun, and headed outside. The only sound marring the silence was the quiet, measured slap of her feet against the pavement. Breath held tightly in her chest, she felt a slight tinge of relief as she opened the car door. Then she smelled it, like a wraith from her fractured memories.

_Metallic. Like copper. Like—_

Sara spun around, gun tensely ready, kit swinging like a second weapon. She was just in time to see the dark silhouette, and the streetlights' glow catching on the knife's blood-stained edge.


	10. Chloroform and Tears

As Brass' unmarked Taurus careened into the driveway of Jillian Edwards' apartment building, the scene registered on his brain with blinding speed.

_Sara's SUV—door open—something against the driver's seat. Ski-mask running left—with a bloody knife._

_Shit._

Every tendon strained, Brass charged out of the car in a vengeful whirlwind toward the escaping black-clothed figure. The knife had vanished, and the man darted toward the corner with uncanny speed. Raising his gun, Brass fired twice, exploding the dark silence with smoke-veiled lead. One bullet grazed the man's leg as he vanished around the corner. Brass was an impeccable shot, but the man was just weaving too much, moving too fast. Brass was about to pursue him, but a single thought consumed his mind like a lit match in dry grass.

_Where is Sara?_

Spinning around sharply, he faced her SUV. His heart froze when he saw.

Sara was lying on her back against the driver's seat, bloodied with several stab wounds.

"Damn it!" Brass cried, the words choking in his throat. Quickly he holstered his gun and ran to the SUV, surveying her still form in a single frantic sweep. He took a deep breath as his worst fears were expelled—she was only unconscious. She was wounded, but it did not appear life-threatening. Maybe her fighting or his arrival had stopped the killer from finishing the job.

"Sara . . ." Brass groaned, leaning in to lift up her head. Her face was bruised, a trickle of blood lingering cruelly on her pale freckled skin. Gnawing his lip, Brass yanked out his radio and called for backup and an ambulance.

_The bastard can get away for now. There's no way I'm leaving her._

"Wake up, sweetheart," he whispered as he wiped the blood from her cheek with his handkerchief. Brass took off his suit coat and wrapped it around her gently, as she shivered involuntarily, eyelids flickering. She had lost some blood, but not enough to put her at serious risk. She would be okay until the ambulance arrived. He sighed, wiping the nervous sweat from his forehead as his adrenaline started to slow back to normal. It had felt like dying.

Brass leaned in slightly, and brushed her tangled brown hair with his lips in a lingering touch. As he inhaled, he noticed an odd smell, then nodded with understanding. Chloroform. She was unconscious because the killer had sedated her.

_But why?_

The killer sedated his victims with chloroform, but that was so he could move them.

_He told Scott he had a reward—a "used bitch" for "entertainment."_

Brass' lip curled in revulsion as he straightened slightly. Maybe Scott had sealed the deal after all, and the killer—Hunter?—was getting ready to bring Sara to him. Or maybe he had decided to do more than just kill her. "Maybe you just fought so hard he couldn't handle you," he smiled faintly. He sighed with relief as sirens burned sharply into the silence, and the ambulance's flashing lights washed across her pale skin.

* * *

Grissom pulled his Denali up sharply beside the screaming squad cars, heart wedged tightly in his throat. Quickly he snatched his kit and got out, forcefully slamming the SUV's door. Fist clenched with fear and anger, he marched toward the apartment building, clear blue eyes clouded. Images flashed through his mind in demanding sequence—caged windows, slashed throat, a fragile butterfly. He blinked hard at the flood of crimson memory, and swiftly surveyed the scene. 

_Sara's SUV. Blood in the driver's seat. Blood on the pavement. Smashed kit, fallen gun._

_No Sara._

He half-expected her to glance up from some piece of evidence she had found, and explain what had occurred with a thoughtful light in her soft brown eyes. She was meant to investigate crime scenes, not be part of one. Grissom flinched as an image of a butterfly on skin against blood-pooled tile returned to his mind. It had always lingered there—the fear of losing _his _elusive butterfly forever.

"Where is she?" Grissom demanded, grabbing the arm of the nearest officer. "Where's Sara?"

"At the hospital," the officer replied. "The ambulance just took her."

Grissom released him sharply, jawline tense. "Where's Captain Brass?"

The officer pointed to his right, closer to the apartment. Grissom saw Brass standing there, back facing the street, flashing lights chopping across his strong but weary frame.

"Jim!" Grissom yelled, starting toward him. Brass turned slowly, and Grissom stopped a few feet away. His coat and tie were missing, and the front of his white dress shirt was stained darkly with blood. Grimness dimmed his dark blue eyes. Grissom stared at him silently, the fearful question left unspoken.

"Sara received several superficial stab wounds," Brass sighed, rubbing his temple. "Paramedics said she needs care, but she's stable and should be okay." He paused, shaking his head. "The bastard ran off when I got here. I hit him in the leg, but not too badly. He was really fast, like he's had some kind of training or something."

"So you didn't chase him." Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"No," Brass stated simply.

After a moment, Grissom nodded reluctantly. "Well," he said with a sigh, "gunshot wounds bleed. So much for not leaving DNA, right?"

"Yeah." Brass glanced down the street, still alert. "So, you think it's the glass man?"

"Hunter?" Grissom shrugged. "At this point, I really don't know. I definitely want him at the station, though." He paused, frowning, then added, "What about Scott?"

"Actually, I had two of my guys keep an eye on him, UC. They tell me he was at a bar the whole time, and never left their sight." Brass shrugged. "Who knows."

"We need to lay everything out again," Grissom muttered. "The killer's gotten his three victims from the Vegas area, so he'll be moving elsewhere. That gives us a little time to catch up." He gestured to the bloody SUV. "Once we process this."

"Right," Brass sighed, glancing at the pavement. "I need to get to the hospital, so I can get Sara's account once she wakes up."

"She's unconscious," Grissom stated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. He used chloroform on her."

"Chloroform?" Grissom frowned sharply. "Like on his victims. But for what?"

Brass shook his head. "That's for you, Sara, and the evidence to tell us. Which is why I need to get her statement."

Grissom straightened his shoulders, eyes determined. "I want to see her."

"You will," Brass sighed, faint irritation seeping through his weariness. "But right now, I'm the cop and you're the CSI. I take the statements and you process the evidence."

"Yeah, well, thanks for clearing that up."

Shaking his head, Brass started toward his car. "You know, Gil," he called over his shoulder, "this isn't your fault."

Grissom's mouth twitched, and he started to reply, but Brass got in his car and left.

* * *

Sara blinked as she rounded the corner of the dirty staircase, keeping Brass' strong silhouette, flanked by two officers, firmly in her vision. She walked carefully into the long cold hall, graffiti-coated blue walls entangling her in sharp python swirls. White light shone sharply upward from the walls, casting a strange glow on the writhing patterns. Each step resounded in her ears with unnatural volume, nearly matching the pounding in her brain. Something nagged at her, fragmented images gnawing at her mind. Yet they were indistinct, almost faceless, reduced to odd sensations and a pervasive sense of dread. Only the scent of copper and decay was clear. 

They stopped short beside a worn brown door. Sara glanced sideways at Brass, who gripped his gun firmly, bracing for their forced entry. She stared almost blankly at his strong form, noting his neatly tailored, deep blue suit, shirt and tie, and how they matched his eyes. Through the haze of her mind, she half-remembered nearness in a cold grey rain. It felt distant somehow, but the thought of it warmed her in a strangely intoxicating fire.

"Las Vegas Police!" Brass shouted fiercely as an officer smashed the door. He and the two officers charged into the dim, red-papered room, as Sara lingered in the doorway. She watched as Brass turned cautiously, gun swinging in a tight half-circle.

Slowly she slid into the apartment, drawing her own gun. It was eerily quiet, faint rays of sun filtering through red-painted windows. Her muscles tensed with blind determination as she glided past the sofa, toward a barely open bathroom door. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself and shoved open the door, gun ready. "I got h—"

Sara came to a jolting halt, her mind clearing from its dreamlike haze the moment she looked inside the door.

It was not a hardened gang-banger waiting for her. It was the black-clothed figure of the killer, bloodied knife gleaming fanglike in his gloved hand.

She cried out and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He moved forward, wrenching her arm as the useless gun clattered to the floor. Sara struggled fiercely, twisting and slamming into the bureau under the window, vision fragmenting in red wreaths of pain with every stabbing motion.

"Let's finish what we started, huh bitch?" the killer hissed in her ear, hand sliding tightly around her throat, followed by cold steel. Every muscle straining desperately, she took a ragged breath and screamed.

"Sara? Wake up, sweetheart. It's okay."

Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, absorbing her surroundings. She was lying on her back, looking up at a white ceiling. Sara glanced to her right, noticing pale greenish walls and medical equipment. She was in a hospital. A slight groan escaped her lips as she rolled over onto her right side, noting the pain across her body. Then she remembered, and pulled her arms tightly against her with a shiver. Reopening her eyes, she was slightly startled to see Brass sitting in a chair beside the bed, concern in his eyes. His hand gently brushed her cheek, and she gazed at him silently, letting the warmth of his touch help her nightmare fade.

"Are you okay, Sara?" Brass asked gently.

Sara's lashes flashed down in a slow blink. "Did you get him?"

Brass shook his head slowly. "I shot him in the leg, but he got away."

"Then no, I'm not okay." She pulled herself up gingerly into a half-sitting position. "Did you tell the hospitals to—"

"Already did it. If they get anyone with a wound matching our description, they'll call us up right away. Everyone wants to catch this guy." He brushed a disheveled strand of hair back from her face. "I promise you, we're going to get him, no matter what it takes."

"I want him in jail for his victims, not for me," Sara insisted, attempting to steady her voice. She bit her lip as the day's nightmare washed over her in a returning tide. Tears began to drown her soft brown eyes. "I'm just scared," she confessed as the gathering water rolled down her cheeks.

Brass flinched at her pain, and held his arms out gently. Without hesitation, Sara leaned forward and buried her face in his shoulder, arms wrapping tightly around his strong frame like a lifeboat in a battered ocean. He embraced her carefully, suppressing a shiver as her tears soaked through to his skin. After a few wordless minutes her sobs faded into calmed breathing, matched with his.

"I . . . I'm okay," Sara mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just . . . sometimes things like this make me feel like I'm at the edge . . . like I'm falling."

"I'm right here, sweetheart," Brass said quietly, a tremble in his voice.

Sara glanced up at him, moisture glistening on her pale freckled skin. "I know," she whispered, a warm shiver creeping up the back of her neck. "I'll be all right. I just need a few hours to collect myself."

"The hospital wants to keep you for a little while, anyway, for observation, so that will give you some peace," Brass nodded slightly, wiping the tears from her face. Hesitantly, he added, "Do you . . . want to talk now, or would you rather wait?"

"There's not much to tell," Sara sighed, pulling back slowly. "I had just finished processing the victim's apartment, and her phone rang. It . . . it was the killer." She twitched faintly, folding her arms. "The voice was kind of distorted. He left this message on her answering machine, directed at me. I knew he could see me. It was . . . personal. Like the letters, except worse."

Brass nodded silently, jotting it down in his notebook, though he knew he would not forget.

"I knew he could see me, from wherever he was. At the end, he told me to look out the window. I did, and I saw the officer outside drive off with his lights flashing."

"Maybe a bogus call, made by the killer," Brass frowned. "It's happened before."

Sara nodded slowly. "He said it was just me and him, then he hung up. I knew he was going to try to attack me, so I decided to just get to my car and get away. I wasn't sure where you guys were, but I didn't think you could get there in time if I called. Even if you could, what would I do? I couldn't just stay there—for all I knew, he was in the apartment building with me. At this point I don't know what would have been better."

"You did fine," Brass assured her gently. "So, you went outside . . ."

"As I opened my car door, I heard a noise. I spun around, and there was this guy all dressed in black, with a black ski-mask over his face, and a knife. He was average-built, maybe about 5'9". I think his eyes were brown, but I'm not sure. He didn't say anything—he just came at me with the knife." Sara took a deep breath, focusing her mind like with any other case. "The knife was about six inches long, single-edged. There was dried blood on the blade. I . . . shot at him, but he shoved me hard as I fired, so I missed. He was very strong. He knocked the gun out of my hands and started stabbing at me, but not at my heart or throat or anything. I smashed his shoulder and ribs with my kit. I think I got him pretty good, but he didn't stop. He pulled this cloth out of his pocket and shoved it over my mouth and nose. I figured it was chloroform, but I couldn't get away." She shrugged, exhaling in a sigh. "That's the last thing I remember before waking up here."

"That's very detailed," Brass nodded, though the thought of what happened to her made him feel cold. "Did you, uh, notice anything unusual or distinctive about him?"

Sara shook her head. "Just his . . . his eyes were strange. Hateful, but almost afraid, too." She leaned back tiredly against her pillow. "So how did you guys know I needed help?"

"A hunch," he smiled faintly for her. "Grissom and I were at the glass warehouse, and he said you were at Jillian Edwards' apartment with one cop. I panicked." Brass shrugged. "Overprotection is my middle name. But in this case it was warranted."

"Well, it's nice to have a guardian angel," Sara smiled wearily.

"That's me," Brass sighed, reflecting her smile. He glanced at the clock on the wall and shook his head. "I need to go back to the, uh, scene, and figure a few things out. I told the hospital to call me when they're ready to release you. I can bring you home, so don't worry about anything, okay?" Tilting his head slightly, he added hesitantly, "If you'd feel safer, you can crash at my place for a while, no pressure. Just think about it for now." He stood reluctantly.

"Jim." Sara gestured for him to lean closer, as if she was going to say something. Curious, Brass complied, and was startled as she leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek. "Thank you," Sara said softly.

Brass felt himself blush slightly. "For what?"

"For saving me." Sara laid back against her pillow, letting herself smile, pushing back the nightmare. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she murmured wryly, "My knight in shining armor."

Brass gazed at her silently, the day's emotions choking in his throat, grateful beyond words that he had not lost her. Reluctantly, he slid his notebook and pen into his pocket, then turned and left the hospital room.


	11. And Then There Were None

Taking a deep breath, Grissom closed up the last swab, placed it in his kit, and snapped it closed. He gazed silently across the driveway and into the bushes where the killer had fled. His mind burned, almost with physical pain, at the thought of their serial—and Sara's attacker—being so near, yet beyond their reach. Every nerve throbbed with a scientist's frustration and a human's fear.

_He could have killed her._

Grissom flinched, his clear blue eyes cold and vacant. She had come close before—the lab explosion, Miguel Durado, Adam Trent at the psycho ward. Every time had frightened him in a primal way that he could not express in words. Yet emotion always defied his attempts at explanation, and even after all that had happened, the risks had suffocated him into silence. Somehow, this time had felt different. Worse. She had been deliberately attacked, drugged into unconsciousness, and had wound up in the hospital. It had been closer than before, and the nearness of it pierced him to the quick. Even if he stayed silent forever, Grissom knew one thing for sure.

He could not bear to lose Sara.

"Hey Gil."

Grissom glanced sideways to see Brass standing beside him, looking out across the driveway. His bloodstained shirt was gone, replaced by a slightly wrinkled navy blue one. "How goes the war?" Brass asked quietly.

Grissom shrugged slightly, sighing. "Well, I'm still here."

Brass glanced at him, his dark blue eyes solemn. "Are you?"

Grissom looked back at him silently, their expressions mirrored. Brass' reference to his words to Lurie in the Marlin case unnerved him. It and the memory of it summed up all his emotion with disturbingly clear simplicity. He knew Brass somehow understood what he was thinking. Brass always understood. After a moment, Grissom sighed, "I collected blood from the gunshot wound. Maybe we'll get a hit on the DNA. I also found a few black fibers and blood on Sara's kit—it looks like she used it as a weapon."

"Yeah, that's what she told me," Brass nodded with a sigh. "Did you find the bullets?"

Grissom nodded. "Three 9-millimeters—two from your gun, the other presumably from Sara's. Considering the smaller amount of blood, I'd say yours only grazed the killer. He may not even need to go to the hospital."

"Well, a gunshot's less sophisticated than a swab, but at least we've got his DNA." Brass glanced back at Sara's SUV. "She says he was about 5'9", average build, maybe brown eyes."

Grissom shook his head. "It was too dark. Even blue eyes can look brown in shadow."

"Sara knows." He lowered his eyes. "So, she also said that the killer called Edwards' phone, and left a threatening message. She said he could see her."

"I'll have the tech checking out Edwards' apartment grab the tape."

"Sara said the message was . . . personal," Brass explained, looking back at Grissom. "She might not want the whole lab listening to it."

Grissom nodded, biting his lip. "We'll keep it sealed until I talk to her. DNA is more important, anyway. It's not like we don't know what he was threatening to do."

"Right." Brass paused, sighing after a moment. "Uh, Gil . . . when you get a chance, could I talk to you about something?"

"About what, Jim?" Grissom asked, vaguely suspicious.

"Nothing you did," Brass said quickly. "There's no rush. I just—" Brass' cellphone rang sharply, cutting into his words. Raising an eyebrow, he pulled it out and answered, "Yeah." His forehead creased as he listened. "You're serious. But that can't be."

Grissom glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.

"So you've confirmed it, then." Brass frowned darkly, shaking his head. "Okay. Yeah. We'll be right there." He hung up and glanced at Grissom.

"What happened?" Grissom wondered, a strange sense of dread breathing cold against his neck.

Brass' eyes were grimly puzzled. "We've got a problem."

* * *

Erratic light from the flashing squad cars chopped in blue, red and white across the body, casting odd shadows on the man's face and multiple stab wounds. His open eyes were glazed white, and a small battalion of maggots was busily doing its work. Grissom squatted down beside the body, his flashlight tracing the man's faded brown hair, ragged mustache, and average features. 

"Allow me to reintroduce Josh Hunter, a.k.a. Ray Brentwood," Brass stated from where he stood behind Grissom, his shoulders squared.

"He's been dead for at least a week," Grissom remarked with a frown.

"Smells it," Brass commented, nose wrinkled with disgust. "So unless he was miraculously reanimated, there's no way he committed tonight's attack."

"Nope. Which also means he's not our serial." Grissom tilted his head, glancing over the body. "These wounds were made by a single-edged blade, about three-quarters of an inch in width. Possibly a standard kitchen knife."

"Well," Brass sighed, fingers flexing, "that fits with Sara's description of the knife her attacker used."

"So the real killer murdered Hunter, and then attacked Sara a week later with the same knife," Grissom explained, the words leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

"Hunter was framed, and then finished," Brass nodded. "So, what, the killer got tired of the distraction?"

"I don't know." Grissom stood slowly, still gazing down at the body. "Whoever did it had me fooled." He glanced back at Brass as a thought entered his mind. "Martin Scott."

"What, you're thinking he—"

"He set us up," Grissom frowned darkly. "He knew Hunter's past. Scott was an English major—he could have easily planted that Eliot book in the Sierra Glass office."

Brass nodded thoughtfully. "But why was Hunter going by an assumed name, if he didn't kill anybody?"

"I don't know," Grissom shrugged. "Maybe Hunter changed his name so he could start a new life, or just to avoid registering. Either way, he's not our serial."

"Then I guess we should go pay Scott a visit."

* * *

Grey artificial light sifted from dusty fixtures down the walls' peeling beige paint, coldly illuminating the dirt and disrepair. As they walked down its gloomy length, Brass' casually strong stride and Grissom's neatly clipped pace were matched in dull rhythm on the worn wood floor. In unison, they stopped at the beaten brown door labeled 101. 

Brass rapped sharply on the door. "Martin Scott—Las Vegas Police." He was met by the night's silence and a distant infant's cry. He banged on the door again, then tried the doorknob. "Unlocked," Brass frowned.

"Guess we won't need to wake up the apartment manager," Grissom commented.

"Your door's open, Mr. Scott," Brass repeated, slowly inching the door open and cautiously drawing his gun. He and Grissom stepped inside the darkened apartment, and were met only by the silent television's brightly colored glow flickering against the bare walls. They paused just inside the door, and Grissom pulled out his flashlight, its clear white beam stretching over Brass' shoulder and across the dated carpet.

Grissom frowned as his nose twitched. "Something's not right here."

"Maybe he forgot to empty his garbage," Brass shrugged, stepping further into the room.

"Garbage shouldn't smell like a decomp," Grissom remarked quietly.

Silently, Brass strode through the living room, and around the corner into the kitchen. "Uh, Gil."

Raising an eyebrow, Grissom walked toward him, stopping sharply in the kitchen's doorway.

On the yellow-tiled floor lay Martin Scott, dead, his body torn by vicious stab wounds.

Jawline tensing, Grissom stepped forward, tracing the body with his flashlight. His eyes flashed blue fire as anger built up quickly inside him. This meant that both of their suspects had been eliminated.

"Son of a bitch!" Grissom cursed suddenly, slamming the end of his flashlight against the counter. It sputtered, then returned to its brighter glow. Brass gazed at him silently, his somber eyes reflecting the same frustration. "He's fooled us twice, Jim," Grissom spat bitterly. "_Twice_. Scott's been dead long enough to rule him out, just like Hunter." He took a deep breath, fist clenching. "So the killer took advantage of Hunter and Scott's nearness and questionable pasts, and framed them both so neatly we never thought twice. We thought it had to be one or the other. And we've lost all this time not chasing the real killer." He shook his head. "This bastard is way smarter than we are."

"Then why end the charade now?" Brass wondered, lip curled in disgust. "I mean, we could've been chasing these two for months. Why eliminate both loose ends?"

"Because the killer is an egotist," Grissom muttered. "He wanted to distract us, but while we were going after these guys, we weren't focusing on him. Everybody thought Hunter did it, so nobody talked about this brilliant, faceless killer, which is what he really wants. I think he likes misleading us, but he likes our attention better."

Brass nodded grimly, dark blue eyes sharp. "So no more games."

"No."

"Okay, so we'll forget this little detour," Brass said, straightening his shoulders. "What do we have for evidence?"

"Well," Grissom sighed, "we've still waiting on the killer's DNA. We've got a few black fibers from his clothing, torn by Sara's kit. The answering machine tape can be analyzed further. And the one-way glass still applies, too."

"Maybe he's one of the people in Sierra Glass' customer list, even though you didn't get any hits," Brass suggested. "Could be a first-timer, or somebody who just slipped under the radar."

"Believe me, we'll look into it," Grissom nodded. "Other than that, we've got nothing." He shook his head, shutting off his flashlight. "Call the coroner, would you? I'm going to the hospital to see Sara."

Brass glanced over his shoulder as Grissom started to leave. "What are you going to tell her?"

Grissom paused in the doorway, a pale hollowness in his clear blue eyes. "That we're back to chasing the ghost."

* * *

"Excuse me, I'm here to see Sara Sidle." 

Sara glanced up at the familiar voice, faintly audible through her hospital room's door. Gingerly she pulled herself up against her pillows and straightened her white hospital gown, feeling suddenly uneasy. The pain medication had started to wear off, and her few wounds that had required stitches were uncomfortable.

But then again, it could just be Grissom's arrival.

Something about her situation and everything that had happened brought back bitter memories in a ragged, taunting chain. Emotionally and mentally, Sara had moved past them. Still, those suffocating feelings had refused to leave her mind entirely, lingering faintly like the smell of lies and bloodstained metal.

Slowly the door opened, and Grissom peered inside. "You're awake," he commented as he shut the door behind him. It was too terse, but simply seeing her alive seemed to have frozen his vocal cords.

"Yeah," Sara replied quietly, blinking as he sat in the chair beside her bed. "What, ah, brings you here?"

"I just wanted to make sure my favorite CSI is okay." Grissom's lips twitched into a faint smile, as if unaccustomed to the gesture. His eyes were a contradiction of concern and clear blue coolness.

"I'm fine," Sara smiled falsely. "Just a few scratches."

Grissom tilted his head slightly and nodded, refusing to acknowledge the lie. "Do you need to . . . talk about what happened?"

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I don't need to go over it again. I already talked to Jim."

"Oh." Her use of Brass' first name registered in Grissom's mind as vaguely out of place, but he ignored the feeling. "Well, I, uh, finished processing the scene. We've got the killer's blood, and some black fibers, but not much else."

"He told you about the answering machine tape, right?"

"Oh, yeah, that too," Grissom nodded. "Brass said it was . . . personal, so I wasn't going to have anybody analyze it unless you said it was okay."

Sara nodded slowly, feeling cold as she remembered the killer's message. "I, uh, really don't want it going around the lab grapevine. If it's okay I'd like to do the preliminary analysis. I can lift the voice track, and let Archie in AV analyze the background. I don't think there was anything relevant, anyway."

"That's fine," Grissom agreed. "But if you find anything that seems probative in the voice track, you'll have to let Archie check it out. I'll fry him if he even thinks about leaking anything."

Sara smiled slightly. "He's part of our old tech family, so it shouldn't be a problem."

"Yeah." Grissom glanced nervously at his folded hands. "Uh, Sara, we've had some . . . developments in the case."

Her soft brown eyes flamed suddenly. "You have something."

"It's more like what we don't have." Grissom lowered his eyes, framing his words. "We've eliminated both suspects. Josh Hunter and Martin Scott are both dead, each for about a week."

"What?" Sara's expression faded rapidly into shock. "But . . . but how?"

"They were both stabbed to death. By the appearance of the wounds, they seem to have been killed by the same person who . . . attacked you." He shrugged with a sigh. "We think the killer found out about their pasts and proximity to the victims, and framed them to mislead us. After a while, we were pursuing them too closely to fulfill his need for attention, so he murdered them."

"So the killer went to all the trouble of framing them, then killed them both?"

Grissom shrugged. "That's what the evidence is saying."

"Then we're back where we started—with clues that so far have led us nowhere," Sara frowned sharply.

"Well," he replied, "we're still waiting on the DNA."

Sara glanced across the room, shaking her head. "It's always about the science, isn't it, Grissom?"

Grissom tilted his head. "Only science doesn't lie, Sara."

"Right now, I don't care about science," Sara returned fiercely, her eyes gleaming with unshed moisture. "I just want to know how many women have to die before we can stop him."

"I . . . " He took a deep breath, removing his glasses. "I don't know."

"I know you don't know. If you did, he would be in jail, and we wouldn't be here right now."

Grissom bit his lip, forehead creasing. "Sara . . ."

Sara shook her head, sighing. "I don't mean it's your fault. It's just so frustrating to have him keep slipping out of our reach."

"He's human," Grissom replied firmly. "And like any human, he's going to make a mistake. When he does, we'll be right there to nail him. The evidence is our Holy Grail, Sara. We have to follow it wherever it leads, and we can't force it to lead us there any faster. We don't get to choose. That's its beauty—it's the truth, above any human will."

"This isn't philosophy class," Sara said quietly, "and you can't put evidence into some abstract universe somewhere. We fight for the victims, for the _human beings _behind every fingerprint, fiber and blood drop. We need the truth, but we can't avoid the flawed people whose deaths and crimes give us our purpose. If the victims don't drive you, you might as well be at some chem lab or teaching at a college."

Grissom shifted slightly, his clear blue eyes cold with forced austerity. "Emotion taints our reasoning."

"Sometimes, yes," Sara agreed, taking a deep breath. "I know that. I do. But unless you're a robot, the case gets inside you. If you get to the point that the death of an innocent person becomes just a profile of numbers and descriptions, I think you've lost something vital. Something that makes us human. So even if it hurts, more than these wounds ever could, I'm not going to pull away." Sara looked up at him, her soft brown eyes unswerving. "And I don't think you can say that this case hasn't made you feel something."

Grissom stared at her silently, lips slightly parted. "It has," he admitted after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. "But . . . focus on science is how I keep my sanity. If I let go . . . I'm not ready to deal with where it could take me."

"We know," Sara said quietly.

Grissom frowned faintly, feeling vaguely uneasy. At that moment, a nurse knocked on the door, and opened it slowly. Grissom glanced over his shoulder to see Brass step inside.

"Hey guys," Brass smiled wearily as he stopped just inside the door. Sara looked up at him, a grateful light in her soft brown eyes. "The hospital is releasing you shortly, Sara. The nurse said she'd get some scrubs for you to wear, since your clothes are, uh, evidence."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "So you're here because . . ."

Brass tilted his head. "Well, I figured you'd be at the lab, so I was going to bring Sara to her apartment." He glanced nervously at Sara. "I'll leave if you're still talking."

"We'd just finished," Grissom said tersely, standing. He glanced sideways at Sara. "When you feel up to it, we'll meet at the lab and go over everything. Maybe the day after tomorrow."

"Tomorrow will be fine," Sara replied, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, if I'm just sitting there talking."

"Fine. I'll call you when the DNA comes back. Now excuse me, but I have a date with the morgue." Grissom turned and walked past Brass toward the door. As he closed the door after him, the cold knob matched the sudden chill he felt.


	12. The Way the World Ends

Brass raised an eyebrow, glancing back at Sara as Grissom closed the hospital door. "What's eating him?"

"The usual," Sara replied with a shrug. "He's . . . suspicious, but he doesn't know about us."

"Ah." Brass felt a sudden warmth at the word, then sighed as he leaned against the bedside chair. "I think I'm going to talk to him. I'd hoped to avoid too much conflict—for the sake of the case, too. But I'm afraid he's going to insist on getting mad."

Sara shook her head. "Grissom has no right to be mad at you. If anything, he should be mad at himself." She sighed, leaning tiredly against her pillows. "So what are you going to tell him?"

"Not much," Brass shrugged hesitantly. "Just that we have a date pending. I mean, none of it's really his business, anyway, but I don't want him finding out about it from the lab's friendly local gossip factory."

Sara nodded with a faint smile, then covered her mouth as she yawned.

Brass clutched his hands to his heart with mock distress. "I'm crushed. I know I'm not the most exciting speaker . . ."

Sara exhaled in a laugh, smile spreading unguarded across her face, keeping the nightmare at the borderline of her vision. "You're a funny man, Jim Brass."

He shrugged, dark blue eyes lit with his own smile. "I try."

"I'm just exhausted," she added, grimacing as she rubbed one of her bandages. "I think it's partly the meds."

"I know—I'm sorry," Brass replied gently. "Have you, ah, decided what you'd like to do?"

Sara nodded slowly, a faint light in her eyes. "I think I'd feel better staying with someone else right now, at least for tonight."

"Okay," Brass nodded thankfully. He felt it was the best way to protect her, though the thought of it made him feel strange. "We can stop by your apartment so you can get whatever you need. Anyway, I'll be on the couch in the living room, so you won't hear a peep from me. Believe me," he added wryly, "I did it for a few years."

"Yeah, but you're not in trouble," Sara corrected with a slight tired smile.

Brass smiled warmly for her, mind wandering uneasily to his upcoming conversation with Grissom. _Not yet, anyway_.

* * *

Grissom straightened his pale blue lab coat as he stepped into the morgue, surveying the cold, stainless space. "Sorry I'm late," he told Dr. Robbins, who was sitting at one of the tables against the wall. "Where's Jillian Edwards?"

"I rushed her body to her parents," Robbins replied, reaching for a file of papers on the desk. "They were pretty distraught. Told me she'd just moved out to live with a few friends, but that she was still on good terms with her family."

"So she had roommates," Grissom remarked, tilting his head. "P.D. will have to talk to them." He rubbed his temple with a sigh. "We've been off track for the past two days."

Robbins nodded thoughtfully. "You didn't miss anything in the post. Cause of death was ligature strangulation, with the same markings from the belt used as the ligature. Scratched, bruised, underfed for a week, and raped repeatedly with an indeterminate foreign object. Plus the signature small cuts numbering her as the sixth victim."

"Same as the five other victims," Grissom sighed. "Anything unique?"

The medical examiner shook his head. "All I can say is the attacks grow more brutal with each victim."

"Escalation," Grissom muttered.

"Makes you wonder where it ends," Robbins remarked as he stood awkwardly, gripping his crutch.

"Yeah." Grissom shook his head as they walked over to where Josh Hunter lay on an examining table. "On to our framed friends."

"Well," Robbins commented as he pulled the sheet down Josh Hunter's body, "it's never a good day when both of your suspects turn up dead."

"No," Grissom agreed tersely, glancing down at the body. "So what's the story, Doc?"

"Pretty straightforward. Both men have been dead about a week, and both died of stab wounds to the torso and neck area. Hunter's aorta was pierced, causing him to exsanguinate immediately." Robbins pointed across the room to where Martin Scott lay on another table. "His buddy's C.O.D. seems to have been a slash to his carotid, but his other wounds would have caused him to bleed out in minutes regardless."

"Their killer meant business," Grissom nodded thoughtfully. "Defensive wounds?"

"That's the strange thing." The medical examiner glanced back at Hunter's body, and held up his hand, palm up. "Slightly scratched, but otherwise unharmed. Scott's the same way."

"So they didn't fight back," Grissom frowned. "He must have used chloroform on them."

Robbins nodded. "I suspected possible chemical restraint, so I sent blood samples to Tox." His forehead creased thoughtfully. "I know the killer chloroforms his victims to transport them. But why sedate these two, if he was just killing them to finish off some loose ends?"

"Maybe the killer isn't physically strong enough to kill them if they struggle. Either that, or he likes the power trip." Grissom gnawed his lip. "That would explain why he used chloroform on Sara."

"I thought I heard something had happened to her," Robbins frowned, concerned. "Is she all right?"

Grissom nodded, shifting uncomfortably. "A few superficial stab wounds, but otherwise okay. The hospital stitched her up, then released her. She's just going to need a little rest."

Robbins shook his head. "Well, I hope she has somebody looking out for her. This guy seems determined."

"She's . . . fine," Grissom replied hesitantly. "Besides, we think the killer has skipped town, looking for his next location. He's going to want to get back on "schedule" with his usual victims." He straightened, glancing down at the body. "What about the, uh, weapon used? Anything unusual?"

Robbins shrugged. "The knife was single-edged, about three-quarters of an inch wide, and probably about six inches long. Standard kitchen knife—the killer could've gotten it anywhere."

"Okay," Grissom nodded, starting to leave. "Thanks, Doc."

"One more thing." Robbins gripped his crutch and hobbled to a table across the room. He picked up two stained pieces of paper and held them so Grissom could see. "Murder, he wrote."

Raising an eyebrow, Grissom stepped closer. Each sheet was marked with small, nondescript typed letters. "'This is the way . . .'" Grissom glanced to the second sheet. ". . . the world ends.'"

"Apocalyptic mumblings?" Robbins suggested.

"T. S. Eliot," Grissom muttered. "From _The Hollow Men_. The killer used the same part of the poem in the first message we received—'Not with a bang but a whimper.' Arrogant piece of . . ." He shook his head. "So where'd you find these?"

"Inside the victims' mouths," Robbins replied, "one in each. Folded up neatly under the tongue."

"More confirmation that they were both killed by our serial." Grissom commented. He glanced at his pager as it beeped loudly. "Well, looks like we've got the DNA results."

"I thought the killer never left DNA."

"He did when Brass shot him," Grissom remarked, taking the two notes from the medical examiner.

Robbins raised an eyebrow. "Should I clear a table?"

"It was just a nick," Grissom shrugged as he headed out the door. "But I'd make reservations. He'll probably show up here eventually."

* * *

Brass sat in his living room's brown leather chair, gazing across the dark, silent house. Faint silver moonlight seeped in between the closed wooden blinds, tracing down the green walls and thick, richly colored carpet. The light lingered on an antique medal, hanging on the wall in a shadowbox frame, its silk ribbon the color of freshly fallen blood. He sighed, fingers flexing habitually as he took a sip of his hot coffee. Even without it he was a light sleeper, but he was not taking chances. Not after what had happened to Sara. She was going to be fine, but he knew she was in pain, partly physical but mostly emotional. Like him, she smiled because smiling was a bandage, hiding the wounds beneath. She had gone to sleep almost immediately after arriving, without even having anything to eat. He hoped that her chloroform nightmares had passed, that she would feel better. Until then, and as always, it was his job to protect her.

Brass jumped sharply at a sudden noise, every tensed nerve springing alive, then cursed under his breath as he realized it was only his cellphone. His hand slid from his gun's grip and reached for the phone in his other pocket. "Yeah," he answered quietly.

"Hey Jim, it's Gil."

"Hey insomniac." Brass raised an eyebrow. "What, warm milk and cookies aren't helping?"

"Very funny." Grissom's voice was somewhat flat, but not irritated. "We just got the results on the killer's DNA."

Brass' grip tightened on the arm of the chair. "You got a hit."

"Actually, no. It came up empty."

"You're kidding," Brass frowned, disappointed. "I guess he is a first-timer, then."

Grissom sighed. "Either that, or he slipped through the cracks. We ran it through every database we've got, but he's not in the system."

"Swell," Brass muttered. "So until we have a suspect, DNA is useless."

"Yeah." He paused. "I was going to call Sara to tell her, but I figured she'd be asleep after what happened today."

"Probably," Brass replied, feeling slightly nervous.

"Hey, did you figure out where that cop went? The one that I, uh, sent to watch Sara."

Brass frowned. "Yeah—I talked to Dispatch. He responded to a 444 call less than a block away, which ended up being bogus."

"It's like the Klinefelds and that vigilante," Grissom muttered. "'Officer down' is like a magic phrase or something. I mean, the guy was ordered to stay with Sara."

"I know. I gave him a verbal beating and put him on leave for a few days. Our dear friend the sheriff won't like it, but it made me feel better."

"Yeah," Grissom sighed. "Did you get the caller's phone number?"

"Yep. It came from a payphone within eyeshot of Edwards' apartment."

"What about the call to—"

"Already checked," Brass interrupted with a nod. "The threatening call to Edwards' apartment was made from the same phone."

"So the killer still likes payphones." Grissom paused thoughtfully. "Well, anyway, we'll go over everything tomorrow afternoon—actually, that's today at this point. Sara needs to hear this stuff, too. Is 12 noon okay?"

"I'll bring Chinese," Brass suggested. "It'll be like old times. Plus, chicken teriyaki always helps me think."

"Well, whatever works," Grissom replied wryly. "I'll call Sara in the morning to let her know."

"Don't worry about it, Gil," Brass said, a bit too quickly. "You're busy. I'll, uh, just pick her up when I go get lunch. I'm kind of keeping an eye on her, anyway."

"Okay," Grissom agreed, a slight note of curiosity in his voice. He was oblivious as usual, much to Brass' relief. "So I'll see you then."

"Sweet dreams," Brass returned, sighing as he hung up. He slid his phone into his pocket, feeling more than a little guilty, though he knew it was unnecessary. Grissom was his best friend, and had been for the past six years. Brass knew that Grissom had no "claim" to Sara, and had said clearly that he could not have a relationship with her. Still, Brass knew it was an uncomfortable situation, even if it was Sara's choice.

Swallowing the last of his coffee, Brass stood slowly, glancing around the room and its renewed silence. Quietly he walked to the door, peering outside through an old-fashioned peephole. The street was empty, with only the neighbors' car parked in their driveway, and a stray cat trotting down the road under the orange streetlights. Ears strained to hear any errant noise, Brass turned and headed cautiously through the kitchen and down the hall, glancing into every room.

Brass paused as he reached the master bedroom at the end of the hall, and peered hesitantly around the slightly open door. Sara was soundly asleep, face toward the door, dark hair striking against the white sheets. Moonlight trickled down her pale freckled skin and long eyelashes, casting a shadow below her full lower lip, the cut on her cheek outlined cruelly in its glow. A sudden sharp image of her body against stainless steel, a vicious crimson slash across her slender neck, flashed darkly into his mind. Brass winced, fist tightening. Taking a ragged breath, he pulled away from the door, pushing it so it was only slightly open, as before. He glanced over his right shoulder at his reflection in the large bathroom mirror, lit by the tiny golden nightlight. Brass tilted his head, seeing every year written across his strong features in a novel of pain, trial and betrayal, and the weathered soul behind his searching dark blue eyes. His mind a wordless storm of raw emotion, he turned and walked down the silent hall.


	13. Tracing the Trinity

**Author's note: Please read my updated profile for my take on GSR, particularly in this story. I want readers, and no flames, but I'm going to be honest. Thank you, and keep reading:-)**

**

* * *

**

Sara's mind awoke slowly to consciousness, emerging from a haze of vague nightmare that eluded memory. In the fog of half-sleep, she rolled over onto her right side, fingers tightly gripping the edge of the sheets as a dull ache throbbed through her body. The memory of what had happened trickled back to her in a sluggish stream of stinging cruelty, and she groaned painfully against the pillow. Her lashes fluttered open, pushing out sleep and lingering tears, and she took a deep breath as she remembered where she was. The air in her lungs smelled faintly of tasteful cologne, and her eyes closed slowly at the feelings it stirred. It was Brass' scent. Unconsciously she burrowed her face more deeply in the pillow, fiercely pushing away the shadow, a visceral wave of emotion burning down her spine.

Turning her head, lips brushing across the pillowcase, Sara forced her eyes to open and squinted in the filtered morning light. She sat up gingerly, wiping the sleep from her eyes, and gazed absently around the comfortable room, noting the dark wood furnishings, light green walls, and white sheer panels drawn across the window. Her eyes caught on a small frame on the bureau, and she got up slowly and walked over to it, bare feet padding across the soft tan carpet. It was a photograph of a young girl, about six years old, with feathery brown hair pulled back in red barrettes and wide dark eyes. Sara could tell that it was Brass' daughter Ellie, and she smiled faintly, savoring its bittersweetness.

Over a few minutes, Sara got out her clothes, and straightened up and changed in the neighboring bathroom. She washed her hair as best she could, since showering was a challenge with her few stitched wounds that could not get wet. Surveying her reflection, she frowned at her slowly curling damp hair—since she had forgotten her hairdryer—and the conspicuous cut across her left cheek. Straightening her brown v-neck shirt with a dissatisfied grunt, she finally made her way toward the kitchen, following the tantalizing smell of fresh coffee.

Sara turned the corner to find Brass standing at the counter with his back to her, wearing his tan suit pants and a cream shirt with a faint blue windowpane pattern, humming to himself. Pausing, she leaned against the doorframe, a smile creeping slowly across her face, thinking that she had never seen him look so endearing. "I smell breakfast," she remarked.

Brass turned, revealing two plates of waffles on the counter. "Hey Sara," he smiled warmly, dark circles faintly visible under his eyes. "How are you?"

"Well," she replied wryly as she sat at the small table, "I look like crap, and I don't feel much better."

"You're beautiful," Brass returned gently, leaning forward slightly to slip a damp strand of hair behind her ear, and she smiled again. "So, I cooked up some waffles—well, technically, I thawed some of those frozen ones, but they're pretty good, anyway. I mean, it's not quite gourmet . . ."

"It's fine," Sara smiled gratefully as Brass put the plates on the table, beside a bottle of maple syrup and a stick of butter.

"Well, I promise I'll make up for this meager fare in the future," Brass added, setting down a steaming cup of coffee by her plate. His eyes flickered with a charming smile.

Sara squeezed some maple syrup onto her waffles, taking a deep breath of the sunlit air, focusing her mind on the immediate future. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

"Well," Brass began, watching his butter melt in yellow rivulets, "at 12, I'm going to run out and grab some Chinese, and the three of us are going to have our good old-fashioned meeting of the minds. You know, to go over everything and figure out what we need to do next."

"Good," Sara nodded. "Maybe we'll find something we missed. After we're done, I'll go to the AV lab," she added. "Then I can start analyzing of the answering machine tape."

"Are you sure you want to go back to work so soon?" Brass asked, concern in his eyes.

Sara patted his arm with a faint smile. "I'll just be sitting in the lab in front of a computer. Besides, I need to help catch this guy."

"Okay," Brass agreed, solemn eyes contradicting his smile.

* * *

Grissom stood outside the lab, leaning against the wall beside the side door. His arms were folded, glasses in his hand, as he watched the bright Nevada sun start to melt away the dew. Absently he brushed his glasses' earpiece across his lips, his clear blue eyes staring vacantly over the parking lot. He thought there was something cruel about a world where the sun could shine while everything inside him was coming undone. The fragile chrysalis of emotion, tightly sealed within him, had been violated as the knife had wounded Sara. Her presence was a concrete fact in his mind, something he had unconsciously felt could never change. Now it seemed that she would soon be lost to him, either through the killer's malice or something worse. Perhaps it would be better for her to die as his distant butterfly, not in the arms of someone else.

Grissom's lip curled with repulsion at the raw thought, but it was followed by a serpentine hiss of wordless jealously. He felt like he was swinging a baseball bat in the dark, knowing that something was working against him, but unable to find it. The inability to classify what was happening frustrated his scientist's mind, and his seeming powerlessness to change it angered his humanity.

_You know, by the time you figure it out . . ._

Grissom flinched visibly as Sara's voice flashed into his thoughts with fatalistic clarity. Eyes fading into hollowness as his hand clenched around his glasses, he muttered, "It's too late."

He jumped as his pager went off, then glanced at it with a slight frown. Curious, he slipped his glasses into his pocket, then turned and reentered the lab, stopping at the desk near the main entrance. "You called?" he asked the diminutive receptionist, Judy.

"A woman is here to see you, Dr. Grissom," Judy replied, looking like one of his insects with her thick, black-rimmed glasses. She gestured across the hallway and added, "She said she's Jillian Edwards' mother."

Tilting his head, Grissom walked down the hallway toward a woman with short red hair, standing with her back to him. "Mrs. Edwards?"

The woman turned, revealing freckles and green eyes that matched her murdered daughter's. "Mr. Grissom," she returned tensely. "I've been waiting to talk to someone on my daughter's case."

"I'm sorry we haven't spoken with you yet," Grissom sighed. "This is a very complex investigation."

"I heard on the news that the rapist who ran that glass place turned up dead," Edwards continued, strain in her voice. "So right now you don't have a suspect."

"We're still following leads . . ." Grissom began cautiously, then hesitated as he saw irritation flaring in the woman's eyes. "No," he admitted. "But we do have a consistent profile, and a pool of possible suspects we're looking into right now."

Edwards sighed, rubbing her temple. "I'm not trying to be rude with you, Mr. Grissom. I'm sure you're working very hard. It's just incredibly frustrating to have to trust you cops without knowing what's going on. I mean, Jill's murderer is . . ." She paused, taking a ragged breath as she wiped tears from her eyes. "He's still out there. And it feels like no one's doing anything about it."

"I promise you, Mrs. Edwards, we're doing everything we can," Grissom said quietly. "We're going to catch your daughter's killer." He paused, then continued, "This man is very clever, and leaves almost nothing behind after committing a crime. We don't have much to go on, through forensics or detective work. He's a highly proficient serial killer."

"On the news, they're saying he could be an ex-cop," Edwards suggested.

Grissom tilted his head, wondering where the reporters had gotten that detail. "We're looking at all possibilities."

She frowned, dissatisfied, and added, "What are the chances that you'll catch this guy?"

Grissom paused, thinking. What could he tell her? That they had DNA but no suspect? That a shard of one-way glass was their next-strongest piece of evidence? "It's hard to say," he replied slowly. "With enough hard work, we should be able to catch him, but it just takes time. If he makes a mistake, we'll get him sooner."

"So we wait," Edwards nodded bitterly. They were silent for a moment, then she asked, "Have you ever lost someone you love, Mr. Grissom?"

Grissom flinched imperceptibly, forehead creasing. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.

"A part of your soul dies," Edwards continued, her eyes piercing but sorrowful. Without another word, she turned and left the lab.

A frown crept darkly across Grissom's face, and he glanced up at the clock. 12:01 PM. Groaning, he turned and marched down the hall. In a moment he reached the room with the large table, to find a small array of Chinese food spread across its surface. He paused a short distance from the doorway, gazing through the glass beside it at Sara, who was sitting at the table. She was looking at something across the room, her distinctive smile spreading like faint sunrise across her face. Grissom bit his lip absently, studying that delicate profile that wounded him in a way he could not understand.

Suddenly, Grissom jumped as someone crashed into him. "Hello, Hodges," he remarked with irritation as he saw who it was.

"Sorry boss, sorry," Hodges apologized nervously, straightening his lab coat. "You must be clairvoyant—I was just about to page you."

"I'm busy," Grissom muttered, glancing back at the meeting room to see Brass sit down across from Sara.

Hodges nodded emphatically. "I know—you're such a dedicated worker. And I would know, since I am, too."

"Get to the point, Hodges."

"I finished analyzing the black fibers torn from the attacker's clothes," the trace analyst said quickly. "It's a blend of cotton and polyester, used in knit clothing. Maybe from his ski-mask." He shook his head. "You know, at times like this I'm glad I work in the lab. You guys have a dangerous job. Is Sara okay?" he added hesitantly.

"She's fine," Grissom frowned, waving his hand dismissively. "Anything unique on the fibers?"

Hodges shook his head. "Not until I have something to compare it—"

"Then get back to work," Grissom returned sharply, continuing his march down the hall, leaving a startled Hodges to scurry back to the trace lab.

"So we had to bring this character into P.D. in a furry blue cat costume," Grissom heard Brass telling Sara as he paused just outside the doorway. "Seriously. And when we took off the costume, we discovered that 'Sexy Kitty' was really some bald guy with huge glasses like an inch thick."

Sara laughed, her smile widening. "I can just picture you bringing him in, too."

"I know," Brass smiled back. "It was like 'The Twilight Zone' meets 'Animal Planet.'"

"Well, I'm ready," Grissom announced from the doorway, interrupting Sara and Brass' laughter. The two of them glanced up at him, noting the irritation still lingering on his face.

"So are we," Brass replied, raising an eyebrow.

Sara glanced at both of them, sensing Grissom's tension. "Why don't you, uh, sit down and grab some food?" she suggested.

Taking a deep breath, Grissom reluctantly complied, taking only a plastic fork and a small paper box filled with noodles. "So," he sighed, slipping on his glasses, "let's get to work. Could you give us a quick review, Sara?"

Sara nodded. "Between late January and early February, the killer murdered three victims in the Reno area. Starting twenty-five days later, from late March through April, he murdered three victims in the Las Vegas area. The most recent victim, Jillian Edwards, was killed after six days, instead of the usual seven. She was also kidnapped the day after the fifth victim, Samantha Guerin, was killed. This suggests a continued pattern of acceleration." She paused, then continued, "Since we know he works in threes, it's very likely that he has moved on to a new area, and is currently selecting his next three victims."

"How do we know he's moved on?" Brass asked quietly, concern in his dark blue eyes. "His attack on you was unsuccessful. Why wouldn't he stay here and . . . finish the job?"

"_Because_ he was unsuccessful," Grissom suggested. "The killer hates women viciously, and is highly disturbed by a woman investigating his case. In his mind, no female can be a worthy adversary. If his intent was to . . . to kill Sara, he failed—meaning he was indirectly beaten by a woman, which to him is unthinkable. Returning to kill her would mean admitting that initial failure. Instead, he'll occupy his mind with his signature killings, continuing to play out the fantasies and actions that he's most comfortable with. If he runs into Sara again, I think he would try to kill her, but he's not going to seek her out."

"That makes sense," Sara returned softly. "Fits the profile." She turned to Brass. "What did you find out about Jillian Edwards?"

"Well," Brass sighed, "from all accounts she was outgoing and well-liked. Involved in a lot of school events, clubs, that sort of thing. And yes, her boyfriend is on the basketball team."

Sara nodded. "The all-American girl."

"That's the connection between victims," Grissom remarked, becoming absorbed in the case. "Serials hunt stereotypes. It makes it easier to dehumanize the victims, to turn them into flat symbols. In this case, all of them fit a certain social type, though their physical appearance differs. The victims are young, attractive, well-adjusted, gregarious, and accepted romantically." His eyes were lit with inquisitive fire. "So what can this very specific choice tell us about the killer? Let's go through some of the victim's traits."

"The murders are highly sexual," Sara began thoughtfully. "The victims are just about at the age of sexual maturity, a few years after puberty. Part of his rage may be at what he sees as women's promiscuity, but is actually anything to do with female sexuality and freedom. These girls, as young, beautiful, and romantically successful, represent a kind of sexual object, at the ideal stage for his deepest rage."

Brass tilted his head, intrigued. "So what causes that kind of rage?"

"A variety of factors," Grissom shrugged. "The killer may have had a domineering mother, or one who was too promiscuous and exposed her son to her sexuality. He may feel a lack of masculinity for some reason, possibly a domineering father, and be lashing out at his weakness by projecting it onto victims. Maybe he's been rejected by women in general, or was abused in some way by a female."

"We won't know the reason until we have him in custody," Sara added, glancing at Brass. "But we can keep those things in mind when we look at a suspect's profile."

Brass nodded. "You know, since the victims are popular, the killer could've been a social outcast. Maybe a loner, without any friends."

"It's likely," Grissom agreed. "Serials often are. I think it also contributes to his whole "lone warrior" mentality. From his notes, it sounds like he considers himself to be some kind of social crusader, getting rid of "evil" women after having taught them a lesson. In his mind, it's justice."

"John Wayne joins the Dark Side," Brass remarked with a sigh. "Swell."

"Yeah." Grissom straightened his glasses. "So, what else should we be looking for?"

"Someone inside," Sara stated. "Or formerly inside. This guy has access to records, uses chloroform and one-way glass, and knows too much about forensics. He got information on me, and on Hunter and Scott. Most killers wouldn't go through all that trouble, unless they had fairly easy access."

"So, what are we thinking?" Brass wondered. "Cop, lawyer . . . CSI?"

"Well," Grissom said hesitantly, "I don't think he's _currently _in law enforcement. I mean, where would he get the time to torture and murder all these young women?"

"Guys." Sara's forehead creased pensively. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. The killer hasn't framed anyone else here, or in the Reno area, right?"

"Right," Grissom frowned, unsure of where she was headed.

"He also hasn't attacked any other members of law enforcement, or threatened them with information from their past, right?"

"Right."

"So maybe it's not about having access to records," Sara continued. "Maybe it's about having access to _those_ records. Hunter and Scott's crimes occurred in the eighties."

"Yeah," Brass nodded slowly, catching on as he flipped through his papers. "Scott was convicted in 1989, Hunter in '87."

"My . . . my mother was convicted in '84 in Modesto," Sara said quietly. "We need to look at someone who was in law enforcement during the eighties. Someone who either worked on those cases, or worked with someone who did."

Grissom tilted his head. "So this hypothetical person would have worked in Stanislaus County, California, and then moved to Clark County between '84 and '87?".

"Roughly. He could've worked with an outside lab that processed any of the evidence, too," Sara added. "We need to figure out everyone who was connected to those three cases. We have a profile to limit our search. And he may be a Nevada native, since none of the murders occurred in California."

"Still, we're talking a large pool of people, Sara," Grissom shrugged. "And who's to say that it's even the right direction?"

"It's better than no direction," Sara replied firmly. "Think about it. He knew details from my father's death . . . about the blood, that the cop got sick . . . things that _aren't _in any legal records. He worked on the case or heard people talking about it."

Brass nodded. "So we're looking for a former member of law enforcement connected to all three cases, who was in the field at least during the eighties, and worked in both California and Nevada."

"Exactly," Sara agreed. "He could be anything from a professor to a janitor at this point."

"Delivery guy," Grissom muttered.

Brass raised an eyebrow. "You expecting a package?"

"We can't forget that the victims let the killer in," Grissom continued. "Maybe he's working as a delivery guy now, or at least posing as one." With a shrug, he added, "So we have a better idea of who this guy is, and a few weeks before he kills his next victim. But where is he going to go next?"

"Well," Brass began, spreading out a small map of Nevada, "the first three victims were in Washoe County, from Reno and Sparks. The next three were from Clark County, Vegas and Henderson. Three victims per county, all in metropolitan areas."

"He also selected the county seat, and a city nearby," Grissom added. "So it's likely that he'll pick another county, starting with its county seat."

"And he likes urban areas," Sara continued. "The next largest is Carson City, but that's not a traditional county, and there's no smaller city nearby."

"Elko is the next largest that's not in Clark County," Brass suggested. "Then either Carlin or Wells could serve as the second location."

Tilting his head, Grissom gazed at the map. "Reno, Vegas, Elko," he said quietly, tapping the map with his finger at each location. "Forms a triangle across the state."

"A trinity," Sara nodded.

"That's where he'll strike next," Grissom stated firmly. "He's probably on his way there now, getting ready to pick out his next three victims."

"I'll notify their police department," Brass nodded.

"Tell them to contact us if they notice anything suspicious, and the minute a girl matching the victim's description is kidnapped," Grissom ordered. "I want everything sent here. Our crime lab is far better, anyway."

"I'll analyze the answering machine tape, then work on the records," Sara added.

"Good," Grissom nodded. "I'll get started with the records. Brass, you can do the footwork."

"Pounding pavement," Brass smiled wryly. "My favorite job."

Grissom gazed silently at the map as Brass and Sara stood and left. He tilted his head, eyes tracing between the three locations in an endless triangle.


	14. Letting Go

**Author's note: The next two chapters are going to be mainly character/romance stuff, not casefile. After all, they have a few weeks before the killer strikes again... Plus, note that I added chapter titles! Should make navigation a tad easier. Thanks for reading, and please tell me if anything is ever unclear to you. I can tweak accordingly. Keep reviewing! ---Emyn**

* * *

Brass' fingers flexed nervously as he rounded the corner of the lab hallway, passing offices and individual labs flowing with activity. The Elko police department had been incredulous but cooperative, and agreed to forward all information and evidence to LVPD. Brass thought they had sounded disturbed that a serial killer might already be in their town, yet eager for the media attention. Their cops did not get many chances to be heroes. Sighing, he paused near the ballistics lab, watching the techs test-fire a Glock into a tank of water. Elko P.D. was not worrying him at the moment. Brass swallowed hard, the anticipation of conflict tightening his throat. Taking a deep breath, he turned and walked the rest of the way to Grissom's office. He paused in the doorway, smiling faintly at the classical music drifting out into the hall. Grissom was standing at the corner of his desk, glasses perched on his nose, frowning pensively at the stack of papers in his hands. 

"Hey," Brass said quietly, stepping inside and stopping by the tall metal shelves. He glanced at the glass jars, still wondering why Grissom wanted something as bizarre as a preserved fetal pig. "How's Miss Piggy doing these days?"

Grissom glanced over the rim of his glasses. "She had a cold last week, but I think she's feeling better," he replied sarcastically.

"Well, that's good to hear." Brass shifted uneasily, thinking over what to say, as Grissom looked back at his papers. He knew he had no real reason to feel badly, but despite Grissom's emotional shortcomings, they were friends. He also knew that even though Grissom had not acted on whatever he felt, he _would _react—strongly and illogically—when he realized it was too late. Brass feared that their long-held friendship was in major jeopardy, though he hoped it would even out eventually. Regardless, Brass knew with every fiber of his being that Sara was worth any price, and that he was willing to pay it. Gingerly, he began, "I'm, uh, going out to dinner in a few days."

"That's nice," Grissom mumbled, focused intently on what he was reading.

"Gil." Brass took a deep breath. "It's with Sara."

Grissom's gaze lifted as he slowly removed his glasses. His lips parted slightly, clear blue eyes wide.

"Before you say anything, I'm only telling you this because I'm your friend," Brass added firmly. "I didn't want you to hear it from some lab tech."

An incredulous smile twisted Grissom's lips in a strangely gaunt expression. "You're trying to make me do something about her. This is some kind of joke."

"Gil." Brass' dark blue eyes were solemn and unflinching. "I'm serious."

Grissom dropped his papers on the desk and placed his glasses beside them, his mind choked with a mixture of anger and disbelief as his worst fears were confirmed. He was silent for a moment, rational mind attempting to comprehend what was going on. Despite lingering doubts, he had always considered Sara to be a stable force, someone who would still be waiting once he was ready for her. Though he had vaguely suspected this scenario, he had never expected it to happen. Hand clenching unconsciously, he demanded, "What do you think you're doing?"

Brass sighed and glanced at the ceiling as if for help. "I'm spending time with someone I . . . care about very much."

"So you had to pick _Sara_?" Grissom spat her name in a venomous tone. "I can't even believe this. What are you doing? What is _she_ doing?"

"Whatever she wants," Brass replied firmly. "Look, I'm not trying to start a war here. Sometimes things just happen."

"Oh, sure. It 'just happened.'" Grissom waved his hand, tightly wound emotions seething so hotly he did not know what to do. He felt his face redden, frustrated moisture in his eyes squeezing out through cracks in his cold veneer. Sara, not Brass, had hurt his fractured emotions in a way no one ever had, but Brass would be the object of his rage. "It's nice to know you weren't _plotting _to betray me."

"Don't even start with me," Brass growled. "Nobody betrayed you. Hell, it's not like you were dating her."

"Maybe not yet," Grissom retorted, surrendering to illogic. "You should have stayed away from her."

"Sara is my friend, too," Brass stated with an exasperated sigh. "She's lived through a lot—between her childhood, the trials of her job, you, and now this killer—all pretty much alone. She needed someone to believe in her and protect her, so I've been trying my best."

"What else have you been doing, huh Prince Charming?" Grissom spat vengefully, folding his arms. "What else has Sara _needed_?"

Before Grissom could take his next breath, he found himself pinned against the wall, air knocked from his lungs, staring down with shock into blazing dark blue eyes a few inches from his own. "You listen to me, Gil Grissom," Brass commanded, his low voice barely audible but deadly as a viper's hiss. "Say whatever you want about me. Call me names, curse at me until you're blue, insult everything from my integrity to my haircut. But don't you _dare _say anything against Sara Sidle's character. You of all people have no right to even _think _about it."

"That's . . . that's not how I meant it," Grissom muttered nervously, swallowing hard. Brass was shorter and almost three years older than he was, but his strength was startling. Grissom's logical mind took note, and tried anxiously to regain control of the situation. "I was just thinking—"

"No, you weren't thinking," Brass retorted, arms taut as iron bands. "You never use that mighty brain of yours when it comes to Sara. Those neurons don't work too well when your head's up your ass, do they?"

Grissom's mouth opened and shut, unable to formulate a reply.

"Here's a newsflash, pal," Brass continued firmly. "People don't own each other. Sara deserves to have a healthy emotional life. Evidently she feels you can't give it to her, so she's moved on like any normal human would. It's degrading to Sara to expect her to hang around like a helpless damsel while you're in an emotional coma. I'm informing you of her choice as a courtesy, not because we need your permission. Now you're going to relax and deal with your issues privately, while we're all civil and keep working on the case. Kapish?"

"I . . ." Grissom began hesitantly, back aching against the wall, seeing little choice but to answer. "Fine," he sighed finally. "But could you maybe let me go?"

Brass released him and pulled back in a single smooth motion, squaring his shoulders nonchalantly. He gazed at Grissom silently, lips pressed together in a tight line.

"I'm going to talk to Sara," Grissom stated with forced boldness, his tone almost a threat.

"Then talk to her," Brass replied with maddening composure. "But you'd better make sure you don't hurt her worse than you already have, because I _will _find you."

"Yeah," Grissom frowned, sizing up Brass in a way he never had before. The entire dynamic of their friendship had changed with three simple words, and at that point Grissom was not interested in repairing it. Until he could make sense of the crisis that had blindsided him so completely, a working relationship would have to suffice. Besides, the more demanding question was what he should do about Sara. For the moment, withdrawal was his natural choice. Grissom took a deep breath, tucking his emotions neatly behind his usual facade of austerity, though feeling them crumble in anger's receding tide. "Are we done now?" he asked coolly, sliding his glasses back on, as if their lenses could hide his screaming eyes.

"Sure," Brass returned quietly. With a faintly menacing nod, he turned and left Grissom's office, a single sarcastic thought in his mind as he marched down the hall. _Now, that went well._

_

* * *

_

Sara sighed with relief as she finished the final processing of the answering machine tape. The background noise only confirmed what they already knew—that the call had been made from a payphone on the same street as Jillian Edwards' apartment. The voice track had not been helpful, either. She found that he had put something over his mouth, possibly a cloth or his hand, and had attempted to distort his voice. After running several algorithms on the track, she had compensated for both, reducing it back to what the killer's normal voice would sound like. The naked ear told Sara that he was well-educated, though his tone further emphasized that he was a psychopath. His voice was of medium pitch, not too high or low, and struck her as overwhelmingly average. Sara thought she would recognize the voice if she ran into the killer, but other than that, she had learned nothing. Listening to the message again had been rough for her, but she had tried to keep her mind above it, paying attention to the sound and not the words themselves. Still, she thought she had never heard such malice. Sighing, Sara removed her large headphones, took the original tape from the machine and slid it in an evidence bag. She also removed a disc that she had burned with the stripped background track, for Archie's final analysis.

"Hey."

Startled, Sara spun around in her chair, hand sliding automatically to the gun at her belt, then rolled her eyes when she saw it was Grissom. "You know, sneaking up on me is not a good idea right now," she frowned, straightening.

"Sorry," Grissom flinched, hands fidgeting almost imperceptibly. "How's the, ah, tape coming?"

Sara shrugged. "I'm done, but it wasn't very helpful. It's the same as everything with this case—no evidence, or evidence that gets us nowhere."

"Yeah," Grissom nodded absently, hesitating. "I . . . I got your message, Sara."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't send you a message."

"Yes, you did." Grissom gazed at her, exhaling in a sigh. "I heard about you and Brass."

Sara attempted to measure his reaction, but his face was a tight mask of composure. "Well, he said he was going to tell you," she ventured.

"He did." Grissom's voice was quiet and taut, as if it took every ounce of his strength to remain in control. "At first I thought he was telling me to get me to do something, but now I think you are."

"What do you mean?" Sara frowned.

Grissom took a deep breath. "It's very common for people who are having difficulty getting a . . . romantic interest's attention to go out with someone else, in order to make him jealous, reexamine his feelings, and react. I think that's what you're doing."

Sara shook her head, lips slightly parted in disbelief. "I can't believe you, Grissom," she remarked, irritation seeping into her voice. "How can you be so arrogant to even suggest that?"

Grissom's forehead creased. "Well, why else would you—"

"You think my relationship with Jim is a ploy to force you into confessing some kind of grand feelings for me?" Sara demanded, startling herself with her firmness. She knew she had come a long way emotionally, and being able to actually say it was both surprising and relieving. "I can't believe, after all that's happened over the past six years, that you can walk in here and twist everything around so it ends up being about you. You couldn't be more wrong."

Grissom's mouth opened slightly, unveiled shock visible in his eyes, faint anger creeping back. "But why . . . why would you want to go out with him?"

"Oh, let's see." Sara leaned back slightly in her chair, amazed at his response and that they were even having the conversation. "He's kind, and respects and listens to me. He's got a great personality, and he makes me laugh and smile more than I have in years. He's intelligent, loyal, tenacious, and dedicated to his work, but not pathologically like someone else I know. Would you like me to go on?"

"No," Grissom said hoarsely, still stunned by what she was saying to him. "Sara, I . . . I thought we were . . ."

"Were what, Grissom?" Sara tilted her head, feeling stronger with every word. "Since I've known you, you've pulled me back and forth like a puppet on a string. My response to you was based on my past and my flawed emotions, leading me to be loyal even when you ignored me, which is almost constantly. Hanging on to you and to my past was destroying me inside, driving me to seek release in alcohol and extra work. Not like there was much to hang onto—just empty insinuations and a glance now and then." She shook her head, thankful that it had become clear to her. "You rejected me when I asked you out to dinner. You've seen a handful of other women. You told a murderer that being involved with me was a huge risk and you "couldn't do it.""

Grissom's mouth twitched with anger. "Brass told you."

"No," Sara replied, her tone hardened suddenly. "He didn't tell me anything. I was there."

His eyes flickered at the realization, feeling suddenly exposed. "It . . . it was relevant to the case. I was trying to get him to confess, to get inside his head."

"You didn't need to get inside his head," Sara replied, her voice cool. "You were already there." Grissom stared at her in silence, mouth opening and closing. She had hit a nerve.

"That's why you stayed at Debbie Marlin's house for so long," she continued quietly. "It was easier to channel whatever you felt into solving her case. That's how you've always dealt with me—through cases and outlets beyond the lab. But you expect me to be sitting somewhere, waiting patiently for you until you're ready to act."

Grissom's eyes lowered as he tried to come up with a response. Simply talking to her about anything remotely related to the situation made him feel like a stranded fish, gasping for oxygen. It was painfully uncomfortable and went against every fiber of his being. The scientist in him could do nothing, leaving his stifled emotional side helpless. "Maybe . . . maybe we could . . . you could give me a chance to make it up to you."

"Never." Sara shook her head, her voice calm but unyielding. Saying it lifted a weight that had haunted her for years. "I'm not interested in committing emotional suicide, and nothing you can do is going to change my mind."

He felt like his body had turned to ice, his ability to reason paralyzed. After Brass spoke to him, Grissom thought he had figured out what she was doing. Now Sara was telling him that he was wrong, and that she would never want to give him a chance in the future. Mechanically he filed the facts in his mind, still unable to assimilate them into his view of reality. Sara was sitting in front of him, but she was beyond his reach forever. The thought overloaded every circuit in his brain with blinding darkness.

"Listen," Sara said when Grissom did not speak, noting the irony of not wanting to hurt him. "I'm always going to be concerned for you. We've had a connection, and nobody can deny that. You're a good person, Grissom. You're intelligent, clever, dedicated—the greatest CSI I've ever seen." She shook her head slowly. "But you're married to this lab and your work, and you know it. Even if you wanted to change, you'd still be distant. I think that every moment of true feeling kills you, because you can't analyze it and put it in some neat, controlled little box. Too many variables in relationships, right? Too much risk. But I desperately need someone who _is_ available and unafraid of emotion, someone stable and caring without being possessive." She paused, then added sincerely, "I really want us to be friends and work together, but there can never be anything more."

Grissom straightened, blocking out the truth of her words, attempting to salvage what was left of his tattered austerity. "Friends," he stated, as if speaking the word for the first time.

"Yeah," Sara replied quietly.

His body trembled imperceptibly. Choking in a maelstrom of shock and conflicting suppressed emotions, Grissom turned numbly and left.

Sara stared silently at the blank computer screen as every old emotion came whipping at her in a stinging backlash. Her grip tightened on the arms of her chair until her knuckles were white and bloodless. In her mind, she knew she had chosen correctly, and she did not regret it for a moment. Still, severing the final thread of something she had held onto for over six years hurt her beyond words. Her attraction had been constructed of every rotten brick of her psychology—seeking validation, self-destruction, men who were unavailable. Though she knew they were slowly killing her, those patterns were familiar and comfortable in a bitter way. After living so long in a dark chrysalis of sorrow, breathing clean air burned her lungs. She wanted it more than anything, but that did not lessen the pain of the transition. Taking a ragged breath, Sara covered her face with her hands, body wracked in a tearless sob that mirrored the cold hollowness in the pit of her stomach.

In that broken moment, Sara felt strong arms gently envelop her, and a kiss brush her hair with warm breath. Slowly she lowered her trembling hands to see Brass beside her, the same brokenness in his dark blue eyes, a tear gleaming against his worn cheek. "We're gonna get through this, sweetheart," Brass whispered, his low voice raw with emotion. "I promise you."

Sara gazed at Brass in silence, emotion welling in her chest at his simple honesty and understanding. Lashes lowering in a slow brown fringe, she leaned forward, pausing as his scent and all its memory flooded her senses. In a breathless eternity, their lips touched in a soft kiss. It was gentle but lingering, with an undercurrent of fire, her skin warming as his hand slid tenderly across her damp cheek. As they separated slightly, eyes fluttering open, Sara thought the expression in his eyes was the purest thing she had ever seen. "You know," she said quietly, finger tracing his weathered skin, "you make me feel alive again."

"That's funny," Brass smiled warmly, breath escaping in a faint sigh as he gazed into her soft brown eyes. "I was going to say the same thing about you."


	15. Lasagna and Leather

Grissom sat silently on his sleek white couch, gazing blankly across his coolly modern apartment. Dusky violet light, left in the sun's aftermath, filtered through the half-closed white blinds, glowing on the painted white brick wall and its collection of glass-framed insects. His eyes were fixed on a morph butterfly, its iridescent wings gleaming in saturated blue hues. Its dead fragility was reflected in his clear blue eyes, stark as blood on black and white tile.

_She's gone._

Grissom flinched visibly as the thought came, again, like a death knell in his mind. Five days had passed since his suffocated emotional universe had been destroyed. He had spent them searching through exhaustive records, attempting to find Sara's hypothetical suspect, with no results yet. This time, throwing himself into work had not distracted him, or silenced his gnawing demons. He had been rude with lab technicians and anyone else who crossed his path, avoiding Sara and Brass entirely. A migraine had set in on the second day, but gradually faded after heavy medication. In public, he was silent and withdrawn as a glacier. Alone, he attempted to fill his mind with entomology studies, or the latest forensics journal, all threaded with a ceaseless soundtrack of opera and any other music he could find. Silence was something to be feared, a pit he thought he could not escape. All the emotion he had kept chained up in a corner of his brain had been set loose, tearing through every thought pattern, forcing the rational scientist in him into submission. Sitting there, he felt like he had just slipped over the edge, and was watching it recede into haze beyond his vision.

Grissom stood slowly, walking across the painted cement floor to where the butterfly hung on the wall. Trance-like, he took it down and held it, mechanically analyzing antennae, thorax, forewings. As he tilted the glass frame, his own reflection became visible. He stared, tracing his familiar features, wondering absently why they seemed like a stranger's. Like a tall, grey-haired man, a doctor, with smoothly deceptive eyes that covered a hollow scream. "Lurie," Grissom whispered as he recognized it, his voice corpse-skin cold.

_Now you have nothing._

The butterfly slipped from Grissom's numb fingers and hit the floor, its glass frame shattering in crystalline shards across the cement. Torn blue wings were twisted violently between the fragments, revealing their deceptive brown underside. He knelt slowly beside the wreckage, finger tracing the coal-black edge of a tattered wing. His finger caught on a sharp edge of glass, and he stared as a droplet of blood squeezed out, fading light catching on its thick red surface. The tiny drop grew swollen and fell, landing with inevitable precision on the violated blue wing scales.

_Nothing._

Taking a rasping breath, Grissom stood and stepped around the pile of broken glass.

* * *

Brass stood patiently by the end of the hallway leading from his living room, waiting for Sara, the house's warm golden lights pushing back the growing gloom of twilight. Though they enjoyed each others' company, the preceding five days had been a bit awkward with her staying in his house. He was a gentleman and determined to do things right—Sara deserved nothing less.

Sighing, Brass glanced at his reflection in an old mirror above a bureau in the living room. After much agonizing, he had selected a black dress shirt and pants, simple but sharp—at least he hoped so. He frowned slightly with dissatisfaction at his appearance, wondering nervously what she would think. It was a strange feeling, this happiness and nerves tumbling in his stomach, like a middle-school kid with a crush.

Expression fading into a faint smile, Brass recalled how Sara had come slowly into his life. When Sara first came to the lab from San Francisco, he had been a completely different person. He had been worn to the bone from fighting corruption inside and crime outside, angry at the world and its injustice, all his harshly regimented patterns shattered by the murder of a naive young CSI. The Brass Sara had met was broken inside by guilt and weariness, keeping his vulnerability veiled neatly behind wry wit and a cop's attitude. Even through the strain of Warrick's gambling problem, general conflict with Grissom, and cases that pitted police sharply against scientist, he and Sara had gotten along immediately. His first impression had been one of a bright young woman, possessing a scientist's sharp mind, ferocious dedication to work and justice, mixed with powerful compassion and emotion thinly veiled in her soft brown eyes. Throughout the following years, it seemed that no matter what case or interpersonal issues he faced, he could always find a loyal and nonjudgmental ally in Sara, and she in him. Brass supposed that where they were now was a natural progression, though he barely believe it was really happening. Being wanted was so foreign to him that he thought he was caught in a dream.

The bedroom door opened, and Sara stepped out and walked down the hall toward him. She was wearing a sleek, sleeveless dark red dress, a gleaming strand of red beads around her slender neck, her dark hair smooth, lips shining with tasteful gloss. On her tall, slim frame, the effect was strikingly beautiful simplicity. "The man in black," Sara commented appreciatively as she stopped in front of him, then tilted her head with a coy smile. "What?"

Brass blushed as realized that he had been staring. "I, ah . . ." He sighed with a warm smile, glancing down, still amazed at what was happening. "This has got to be a dream."

"Then don't wake up," Sara said softly, playfully tapping the end of his nose. He looked up at her, light in his dark blue eyes, flinching slightly at a few still visible scars along her arms. Sighing, he gently took her hand, their fingers lacing together. She shivered imperceptibly at his touch, and as the cool fabric brushed her skin.

"Time to cash that raincheck," Brass smiled as they went out the door.

* * *

The sickly golden glow of artificial candlelight stung Grissom's hazy vision as the battered door swung open into the drunken night. He blinked at the red lipstick and leather that peered shamelessly out at him, his nose twitching at the foggy scent of nicotine and stronger drugs. Silently he handed his money to the white-skinned woman, feeling every dirty fiber of the greenish paper as it slid across his hot palm. Grissom stepped inside, the persistent analyst in him meticulously registering the stained wallpaper, faded carpet, and garish Victorian architecture. It was not Heather's, but the numbing soundtrack of whipcracks and moans was the same. Trance-like and mute, he drifted down a winding wooden staircase that creaked like the spine of a dying thing, into the dimness and dark techno of the basement. He selected a room drenched in a bloody red glow, something in his brain shutting off as the door closed.

"Don't speak," Grissom commanded the bound white flesh before him, voice coming out in a disembodied croak. He leaned in closer, face nearly touching the black leather hood, clear blue eyes glazing. "Only speak when I tell you." Mechanically he proceeded with the usual trappings, cinching leather, snapping iron. The scent of sweaty leather and cold metal chains assailed his senses as he stumbled back and pounded the CD player, breathing deeply as a slow, icy piano melody penetrated the swollen air. He gripped the woven handle and spun around, every nerve tensing as memory shot through his brain in a gnashing fever.

"_Will you . . . do something for me?" he asked in a throaty whisper, unbalanced by her darkly exotic perfume and clear white skin._

_A slow smile crossed her full lips and pale blue-green eyes before his vision vanished behind black velvet. "Just say the word."_

_He inhaled raggedly, skin tingling as her long hair brushed his arm in a silken wave. Relentlessly his imagination drifted to a pure smile that left him speechless. "Could you say a few things . . . like I tell you to say them?"_

_He shivered as her hand traced his chest. "Theatrics," she remarked with understanding, her tone like the velvet over his eyes._

"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything." The woman's recitation was muffled by the hood, impersonal enough for him to almost believe. Leather cracked in answer, his brain fashioning a surface of pale freckled skin to receive it.

"_Since when are you interested in beauty?" she asked, burning him with the perfectly captured innocence in her voice. Leather cinched firmly around his wrists, his head lowering as he began to surrender, displacing emotion._

"_Since I met you," he recited hoarsely, half-feeling the cold of the icy rink, and the startled fire in soft brown eyes._

"You know, by the time you figure it out, it really could be too late."

Grissom caught his breath, the piercing memory of sunlit feathery hair and a bandaged hand hanging wraithlike before his tortured vision. His mind spiraled down, tracing through every fragment of the battered tapestry that was his life. With each seething image, leather cracked against flesh, resonating in his tangled memory with fatalistic rhythm. It pounded with every cold note of the piano, like measured footsteps across pale carpet in a darkened house. Grissom's breath came out in haggard gasps, his vision drowning in an unspoken realm of dream, nightmare and memory.

"Pin me down," the woman recited quietly, the memory slashing knifelike through his tattered consciousness.

The whip fell from his numb hand and clattered to the concrete floor with the finality of a gunshot. Shaking in cold sweat, his hand barely brushed her scarred flesh, seeing only sweetly freckled skin. "Sara," he groaned faintly, breath grazing the strange woman's skin in a ghostly chill.

Grissom's eyes snapped open and he sat forward sharply on the couch, slumping back as a headache attacked him with throbbing intensity. Disoriented, he glanced around and discovered that he had not left his apartment. It had been a dream. Mind climbing slowly out of broken fantasy, he realized the bottle of liquor was still clutched tightly in his hand. Absently he put the bottle on the end table, noting the irony of having selected Sara's drug of choice. He flinched, lip curling as his scientist's mind surveyed his darkest dreams with horror, forcing them back behind clear blue rationality. Mechanically he glanced at the large wall clock across the room. 11 PM.

_A ghostly smile. "I'm still here."_

Grissom tilted his head, a frown twisting his face in a dark tremor as he remembered Lurie's words. Breathing in the humid air, he closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in sleep.

* * *

Sara's evening flew by in a whirlwind of good food and better conversation. Brass had selected a small but excellent restaurant that specialized in vegetarian versions of classic Italian dishes. Against a backdrop of deeply golden walls, sleek dark furnishings and smooth blues guitar, they talked about everything that came to mind. Sara found herself wrapped up in layers of Brass' personality she had only glimpsed before. Despite his straight-shooting cop exterior, Brass was interested in literature and philosophy, and especially in his old college major, history. She listened as he animatedly described the stylistic aspect of a film noir he had recently seen, smiling at his excited grin and the warm light in his eyes. They had enough similarities to fit together, and enough differences to keep each other intrigued. As they finished eating and headed back to Brass' house, Sara was amazed by how quickly the time had passed, and how much she had enjoyed herself. It was refreshing to simply enjoy someone, without angst or pressure.

Sara sat on the couch in Brass' living room, legs folded up beside her. She had changed into grey pants and a deep rose cap-sleeve t-shirt—more comfortable, but still attractive. Brass was in the nearby kitchen, humming absently to himself as he finished making coffee. She tilted her head with a lingering smile, studying the strong outline of his shoulders.

"The house special, _café á la _Jim," Brass smiled as he walked over and handed her a steaming mug of coffee, insulated by a slightly worn woven coaster. He sat down beside her on the couch, holding his own coffee.

"Thanks," Sara returned with a smile. They were quiet, cautiously testing their hot coffee, comfortable with each others' silence. After a moment, Sara said, "Tell me about you."

Brass tilted his head. "What about me?"

"You know, your . . . your history," Sara explained with slight hesitation. She was curious to know more of his emotional aspect, without seeming intrusive.

"Ah," Brass nodded, smiling wryly as he understood. "Burn comparison."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," Sara smiled playfully, though her eyes were serious.

"How can I resist?" Brass returned with a slight mischievous smile, leaning back in his chair. He sighed with faint bitterness as his smile faded, gazing at her. "I was married for . . . too long. For the first few years it was okay, but with my job as Jersey's friendly local iconoclast, home life just wasn't happening. Those cops were dirtier than a _Sopranos _episode." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "About ten years in, I started to suspect that something was going on with her. When I found out she was pregnant, I knew."

"Ellie," Sara said softly, nodding slightly with understanding. The nobility of his attitude toward Ellie struck Sara even more strongly, since the girl was not Brass' biological daughter.

Brass nodded, forehead creasing in a frown. "My life had become insanity. Alcohol, an affair, the general sleaze of Jersey Vice—I looked for an escape wherever I could. Especially drinking. You think if you "medicate" enough it will all just go away, but it only gets bigger, you know?" He hesitated, remembering. "Ellie was growing up, and I missed almost all of it. I remember waking up one morning in some hotel, not sure how I got there, and realizing that I'd missed her birthday." He paused again, as Sara sipped her own coffee, listening quietly. "I was old-fashioned. I thought it was better to be married, to weather the storms of life—you know, like they write about in cheesy poetry and greeting cards. But, to use one of my daughter's expressions, it was way too late. My marriage was destroyed, Ellie despised me, and if I stayed in that cesspool department any longer I was going down with it. So, I bailed. We filed for divorce, and I got the hell out of Dodge and came to Vegas." Brass sipped his coffee and sighed. "You know, sometimes I look back and wonder where I went wrong, how I could have fixed things. But it's over and done with, and no amount of Scotch or trips down memory lane could convince me to go back. That was another world, another me. The only thing I still try to hold onto is my daughter, no matter what happens or what she does to herself." He fell silent, nursing his coffee.

"Warrick told me about your exploits in L.A. last year," Sara commented quietly. "You did the best you could, Jim. You're a good father."

"Ah," Brass mumbled, blinking hard to dash the moisture from his eyes, "I don't know. I mean, nothing's changed. Ellie hasn't contacted me. I guess she's still out in Hollywood, picking up johns." He shook his head slowly. "And after all Warrick and I went through, LAPD didn't even file charges—because, of course, the suspect was running for mayor. Politics." His lip curled distastefully. "I hope there's a special place in hell for politicians—right next to the lawyers."

"And the overzealous reporters," Sara smiled gently, laying her hand on his arm.

"Right," Brass smiled back, taking a deep breath. "Your turn."

Sara sipped her coffee, adjusting her legs on the couch. "You know the old song that says 'looking for love in all the wrong places?' That's pretty much my life story." She shrugged slightly, sighing. "I've had a few guys over the course of my life, mostly when I was younger. I couldn't deal with . . . what had happened to my family, so I looked for escape, too. None of them ever said they loved me." Slowly Sara pushed back a strand of dark hair. "I guess I was just searching for anything that looked like affection—like normalcy. Something other than being the little girl whose mom killed her dad. I buried myself in science textbooks, advanced physics, Harvard, work. I don't remember when exactly I started drinking. It kind of crept up on me, trying to fill in the empty spots. It only worked for a while, and when it wore off, everything seemed worse."

"Alcohol does that," Brass nodded with a knowing sigh as he put his empty mug on the end table.

"Yeah. More problems than answers, right?" Sara paused with a faintly bitter sigh. "So then we have Grissom. He was like a mentor, and any attention he gave me I eventually misinterpreted. I saw what I wanted to. Just ask my shrink at the lab. At this point, I guess I wasn't hallucinating and some mutual things were going on, but it was just all wrong. And you know, the one time I try to have a fun, casual relationship, I'm actually being used as a no-commitment movie date by a guy cheating on his girlfriend. It just can't be simple." She hesitated, sipping her coffee, and gazed thoughtfully at him. "So how much did you know, about what was going on with me?"

Brass tilted his head, hands folding thoughtfully. "I'd figured out the general dynamic between you and Grissom by just watching. You gave, he took, and then wondered why you weren't giving more. I could see how you were being worn down, but since Grissom was my friend, I didn't get involved. I guess I just tried to look out for you, trying to do everything I was afraid Grissom never could."

"So what made you change your mind?" Sara asked softly.

"Miguel Durado, to start," Brass replied quietly, jawline hardening at the name. They gazed at each other, each remembering that perilous moment in the blood-red apartment.

"I was stupid," Sara confessed. "The lab explosion had thrown me so off-balance, I felt like I had nothing to lose. I didn't think."

"You weren't stupid, just taking too big a risk," Brass disagreed. "When I . . . talked to you after, I wasn't angry. I was just scared out of my mind." He paused, eyes tracing her profile. "In that moment, feelings I'd been nursing half-unconsciously came over me so clearly, I . . . You'd gotten inside me, Sara." He sighed, a soft half-smile flitting across his face. "I made it my job to protect you, even more than before, but not imposing my own feelings on you. After the Marlin case, and everything over the past two years . . . I'd been watching you lose yourself, and I couldn't do that anymore. So I lectured Grissom a little bit, to try to get him to realize what was happening, and what he was losing."

"You did that for me?" Sara asked softly. "Why?"

Brass sighed, his eyes dark with emotion. "I . . . want you with me, but more than that, I want you to be happy. I know what it feels like to die inside, and I'm willing to give anything to save you from going through that."

Sara lowered her eyes, blinking to push back the moisture. For some reason, his simple action struck her as incredibly sweet and selfless. It was completely the opposite of what Grissom would do. After everything that had happened, she wondered with bittersweetness why she had not looked at Brass this way sooner.

"What's wrong?" Brass asked gently after she was silent, slipping his arm around her.

"Nothing," Sara sighed, a smile spreading faintly across her face as she wiped a few tears from her eyes, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Everything's right. That's why I'm crying."

Brass smiled back gently, his eyes lit by a softly smoldering fire. He gazed at her silently for a moment, brushing back a strand of her dark hair. "What are you thinking, Sar?"

Slowly Sara reached up and ran her hand down his cheek and neck, resting it against his chest. Lashes downcast, she caught her breath as she felt the rhythm of his heartbeat, strong beneath her hand. She met his gaze, the flame in his dark blue eyes mirrored in her own. "I was thinking how easy it is to fall in love with you."

Sighing, Brass cupped Sara's face in his hands, dark blue gaze running across her skin with gentle hunger. Their eyelids slid closed, breathing matched as their lips touched in a fiery kiss.


	16. Lost and Found

Grissom walked down the lab's winding hallway, his pace tightly measured, almost mechanical. Just over two weeks had passed since Sara had been lost to him. His emotions had ricocheted through every stage—shock, disbelief, anger, sorrow, and regret more profound than anything he had ever experienced. After much struggling, he had managed to restore the cool veneer over his feelings, covering the hollow emptiness inside him like the gilding on a sarcophagus. But the death within him had not been stopped, the demons left unsilenced. Through the maelstrom of screaming memory crowding his mind, he knew that he could not face it alone. He needed logical outside help.

Grissom paused in the doorway of an office, mouth twitching as he gazed inside. Catherine was sitting at her desk, poring over a stack of files, the pale golden light caught in her reddish-blonde hair. He thought of how long they had known each other, and how many storms their friendship had survived, though scarred. Her promotion to swing shift supervisor had deepened the change he had perceived in her—sharper attitude, need for dominance, increased reliance on her sexuality. The whole thing made him feel strange. Still, Grissom knew he could count on her for frank advice. "Hey Cath," he said quietly.

"Gil—been awhile," Catherine remarked as she glanced up from her papers, smiling slightly as she removed her stylish squared glasses. "I was starting to wonder if you'd left us."

"I'm still here," Grissom returned quietly, biting his lip in a sharp pang as soon as he said the words. Slowly he walked across the office and sat down in the chair in front of her desk. His face was lined with weariness, as if he had aged ten years, and dark circles framed his eyes.

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you with something?"

"I've got a problem," Grissom stated, his voice coolly controlled but lifeless.

"I can see that." She tilted her head, studying him. "You look like a poster child for an insomnia study. So what's wrong?"

Grissom hesitated, glancing absently at his folded hands. "It's about Sara."

"Figured," Catherine nodded, leaning back in her chair. "Either that, or someone squashed your tarantula." She frowned slightly. "Is this about her getting attacked at some crime scene? Because I heard about that, and, you know, you really need to do a better job looking out for your people. After what happened to Nick, I always send my guys out together, or at least with an experienced officer."

"Yeah, I know," Grissom retorted, more harshly than he intended. Sighing, he rubbed his temple and continued, "Sara is going out with Brass."

A laugh burst from Catherine's lips, violating the room's quiet solemnity. "Right. And I bet you've got a bridge to sell me, too." Her grin faded as Grissom shook his head slowly. Clearing her throat, Catherine asked incredulously, "How long has this been going on?"

Grissom took a deep breath. "Brass told me about two weeks ago, so . . . at least that long."

Catherine folded her arms, lips parted slightly as she attempted to process the information. "So . . . why are you here exactly?"

"Because you're the people person."

Catherine's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "So, let me get this straight. You get upset with me for wanting human contact, but when your non-relationship goes south, you want my help. It's like a merry-go-round with you, minus the 'merry.'"

"I think we've established that I'm deficient," Grissom sighed, bitterness glazing his clear blue eyes. "I need you, Cath. I need to know how to fix this."

Sighing, Catherine shook her head. "What've you done so far?"

"Well, I talked to Sara right after I found out. According to her, it's because he's a wonderful guy, and she's done waiting for me." His voice was monotonous and withdrawn.

"Uh, Gil, I hate to say this, but . . . you can't really expect someone to stick around if you don't commit to them," Catherine said cautiously. "I know you two have an . . . unusual relationship, but people just aren't wired that way. Not even Sara."

Grissom nodded slowly, still unsure. "So . . . what do I do now?"

"Well, if she really is . . . dating Brass, you can't do a whole lot." Catherine leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. "Okay, look, it goes like this. When you like someone who's dating someone else, you can't be pushy about it. You've got to be nice, but not overbearing—just keep yourself on the radar. If things go sour with the new boyfriend, you'll be there for her to turn to. In the meantime . . ." She shook her head with a slight sigh. "Gil, you've got to move on. I know this terrifies the hell out of you, but you should go out, and meet a few women who don't work at the lab. There's plenty of single women out there—you're bound to find a bug-loving workaholic after a while. Or you could always try a second date with the blonde, what's her name, Sofia Curtis. I thought you liked her."

"I do," Grissom admitted hesitantly. "She's smart and attractive, but she's not . . ."

"She's not Sara," Catherine finished for him.

"Yeah," Grissom sighed.

"Sara's not worth all this," Catherine shook her head slowly. "You don't have the emotional capital to spend fixing all her hang-ups. I think you both need to ditch the drama and get on with life."

Grissom gazed at her silently, his logical mind venturing hesitantly that she was right about moving on, though his emotions were as stubbornly deaf as ever.

"Listen, Gil," Catherine said quietly when he did not answer. "You wanna know what you _really_ need to do right now?" Straightening, she reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a newspaper. She held it up so he could see the front page and ordered, "Now tell me what that says."

Frowning, Grissom took a deep breath and read. "'_Killed by a Ghost: Still no suspects in the Silver State Strangler Case_.'"

"That's _your_ case, Gil," Catherine returned firmly as she put the newspaper away. "You need to put aside the personal stuff and throw yourself mind, body and soul into finding that killer. Those victims are your priority, your _responsibility_—everything else can wait. They deserve a dedicated CSI on their case, not somebody who's going to be mulling over his romantic problems while processing scenes. You've got to chase the evidence—now more than ever."

Grissom tilted his head, nerves starting to relax as he forced himself to refocus. Her words were crystalline logic, piercing with welcome rationality into the chaos that plagued his mind. Putting off the issue terrified him, but he was more afraid of facing it. Catherine was right—the case was his duty, the life purpose he had chosen years before. He had to devote himself to science. It was the only way he could catch the killer—and keep his sanity.

Catherine leaned forward again, a pragmatic light in her blue eyes. "So what do you have for physical evidence, right now? And I don't mean catchy theories or stuff that's useless without comparison."

"Well," Grissom frowned slightly, allowing the cool scientist to take over, "we've got fingerprints from the payphone near the fifth victim's apartment, but that got no hits—except one of our dead guys."

"Well, you keep saying he wears gloves," Catherine commented. "Are there any other phones you can check out?"

His eyes widened, flickering as the dust fell rapidly from the wheels in his mind. "He'd wiped down the phone outside Jillian Edwards' apartment, so no usable prints . . . But when we were working on the first Vegas victim, Jamie Martin, we didn't know about the phone thing."

"So check her phone records. Maybe the killer called her from a payphone, too."

"He could've slipped up and left a print," Grissom finished, standing quickly. "And if he worked in law enforcement or in a courtroom, his prints would be on file."

"Then run with it," Catherine smiled.

Grissom nodded, breathing deeply as his mind began the painful return to logic. "Thank you, Cath."

"For what?" Catherine sighed with a shrug. "Just telling you what you already know."

* * *

Brass awoke from a light sleep, the moon's silver light glowing through his eyelids. Taking a deep breath, he shifted slightly, the pillow cool against his worn cheek. He smiled with a sigh as his elbow bumped smooth skin, eyes opening slowly to marvel once again at the miracle of smooth dark hair and delicate features beside him. Everything had happened quickly, but, looking back on it, he knew it had been a long time in coming. Once it had started between them, it had all flowed so easily, so naturally, like they had always been made to fit together. On that cool night a week before, the gentleman in him had stopped her, stilling her slender hands, to make sure it was what she really wanted. Within a few minutes, he had no more breath for questions. The simple thought that Sara Sidle wanted to be with him touched Brass beyond words, filling him with a warmth he had only dreamed of. After so many years of lonely emptiness, the feeling was indescribable.

"Are you awake?" Brass asked her softly, below a whisper.

A smile spread warmly across Sara's serene face, her eyes still closed. "No," she returned, her voice foggy with half-sleep.

Brass brushed back her hair with his hand, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, lips lingering against her skin. As he pulled back slightly, her eyes fluttered open, filtered moonlight shining in their soft brown depths.

"Can't sleep?" Sara asked, slim finger tracing the deep line between his nose and mouth.

"Ah, I'm always a light sleeper," Brass smiled faintly with a shrug. "I'm just . . . thinking." His smile faded, hand clasping hers as the gnawing fear at the back of his mind returned in a cold whisper. Relentlessly, his gaze was drawn to the scar across her cheek. Dark blue eyes grown somber, he asked quietly, "Do you think we'll catch him?"

Sara shivered slightly, dark lashes lowering. She had been thinking of the same thing. It lurked, ghostlike, at the edge of every smile, every moment they shared, knowing that the clever monster who had attacked her and killed six women was still eluding them. "Honestly?" She squeezed his hand gently. "Right now it feels like we never will. I keep wondering how many more innocent women have to die. It . . . haunts you."

"I know," Brass sighed, his low voice weary. "I mean, every time I see a girl about that age, I wonder if maybe she'll be his next victim—if I'm doing all I can to protect her. It makes you feel so powerless, thinking that one man can cause so much evil."

"But I guess that's the answer," Sara returned quietly. "Whether we think we'll catch him or not, we have to keep fighting. We're the only thing standing between those girls and his evil." She sighed faintly, solemn light in her eyes. "Deep down, I do believe that we'll get him, whether it takes days or years. He's human."

"That's what scares me," Brass said grimly, brushing her fingers with his lips. At that moment, the telephone on the nightstand rang loudly. Frowning, Brass sat up and answered it with a curt, "Hello?" His expression darkened as he listened. "Yeah, this is Jim Brass . . . I'm fine, how are you?" Sara propped herself up, tilting her head as she gazed at him. His mouth twitched, shadow crossing his dark blue eyes. "When?" He paused, listening. "Our team will come up as soon as we can. Okay. Thank you." Sighing, Brass hung up, then turned and gazed at Sara silently.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing from the sorrow in his eyes what his answer would be.

* * *

"Got a hit."

Grissom's head jerked up sharply, nerves taut with anticipation. Jacqui Franco was running the fingerprints from the payphone near Jamie Martin's apartment—at least all the prints that were more than smudges. Grissom leaned forward, peering at the computer screen over the shoulder of the seated fingerprint analyst. The image of an average-looking man with light brown hair stared back at him, dark eyes flatly impenetrable. "Douglas Belanger," Grissom read aloud, a cold wave tracing down his neck as he glanced at the information. "Born September 4, 1959. Graduated in 1981 from California State College, San Francisco, with a B.S. in chemistry. Worked as a criminalist in Modesto from '82 through '86, then transferred to . . ." Grissom paused, his jawline tensing.

"Transferred to the Las Vegas Crime Lab, where he worked until he was fired in 1990," Jacqui continued.

"Why was he fired, I wonder," Grissom frowned. "Do we know where he is now?"

Jacqui shook her head after a few more clicks. "No current driver's license. Last known address is an apartment building in Henderson that was torn down over five years ago."

"What about the records from Sierra Glass?"

"I'm checking 'em out now." Squinting, she clicked into a new window and typed the man's name into the records' search engine. "No hits," she frowned after a minute.

"Maybe he's using an alias." Grissom gnawed his lip, thinking. "Jacqui, can you search for anyone with the same birthdate as Douglas Belanger, 11/4/59?"

Jacqui nodded and punched in the numbers. "Here we go—Robert Greene. He bought several large sheets of one-way glass in the fall of last year. Paid cash, though, so no personal information was recorded."

"Covering his tracks." Grissom straightened, eyes hardening with resolution. "This is our guy."

Jacqui nodded slowly. "How are you going to find him?"

"We'll tell Elko P.D. to look out for anyone matching his description," Grissom nodded slowly. "I guess we'll also use the media to get his picture out." He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully, then turned and marched down the hall. Eyes narrowed purposefully, he went around the central lab and stopped in the doorway of one of the offices. Inside was Conrad Ecklie, sitting at his desk, flipping through a massive stack of papers. Grissom paused, lip curling slightly at the lab's chief internal antagonist. Over Grissom's career, Ecklie had constantly, notoriously, stood in his way. He had shown laudable humanity when Nick had been kidnapped, but afterward had still stubbornly refused to reunite the old Grave Shift team. Grissom figured the conflict would never end. "Hello Conrad."

"Grissom." Ecklie glanced up with a slight nod. "I heard you're having trouble with that serial case. You know, Swing Shift just arrested a renegade gangbanger in their execution murder case. Sounds like Catherine and her guys are way ahead of your little ragtag bunch." He shrugged with an acidic smile. "But that's expected."

"Actually, we've got a suspect," Grissom returned. "Do you by any chance remember a guy named Douglas Belanger? Worked here from 1987 to 1990?"

After a moment, Ecklie nodded thoughtfully. "Doug Belanger. Yeah, I remember him. He was a meticulous CSI. Ended up being a real nutcase, though."

"What do you mean?"

Ecklie pushed back his chair, folding his arms. "I was the new guy on Days during his last year here. I remember some of the lab guys saying that Doug got kicked from Modesto because he made some kind of comment to a young female intern. Things used to slide in those days, but supposedly this was pretty offensive. At any rate, from what I saw, he was very introverted, but a hard worker. Always struck me as a little eccentric, but harmless, like most of we scientist types." Ecklie tilted his head with a slight frown. "The only thing I noticed was that Doug always wanted to work the sexual assault cases, especially rape-murders. He always made a special point of talking to the victims."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Talking to them how?"

"Supportively," Ecklie replied. "Occasionally I sensed some scorn on his part—you know, the old attitude about rape victims. He was old-school, but never open about any derogatory feelings. Well, until his last case." Ecklie frowned, remembering. "This young woman, about twenty years old, had been raped. There was little evidence—plus no DNA testing—so Doug needed to talk to the girl again, to try to iron out exactly what happened. When Doug sat down to talk to her, he was polite at first, acting very professional while she told him the details of the rape. When she was done talking, he just . . . snapped. He launched into this tirade about how she had brought it on herself—called her a slut and a whore."

"Did he say anything distinctive?"

Ecklie shook his head. "Not that I can remember. He'd done so many other interviews before without anything like that happening. Maybe it was some kind of bad anniversary."

Grissom's eyes sparked. "I'll look up the date in the file," he nodded. "So the lab fired him, without any harassment charges?"

"Yeah," Ecklie nodded. "It was a little weird. But the lab was going through a shakeup, so I guess the director didn't want to make things more public. The girl was upset, but she didn't file. It seems like the lab officials discouraged her from filing, if you ask me. Plus, we were still working on getting a rape conviction on the suspect. She had more serious things to worry about."

"What was her name?"

"Dana Guerin," Ecklie replied. "But she and her husband died in a car crash over ten years ago."

Grissom's lips parted with shock, cold washing up his spine. Silently, he spun around and hurried down the hall to his office. His brain spun rapidly as he fished through the files on his desk and pulled out a particular folder. Flipping it open, he stared at the sheet inside. "Samantha Guerin," Grissom read aloud, his voice taut. "Parents, Richard and Dana Guerin, both deceased." Clear blue eyes bright with discovery, he closed the file and dropped it on the desk. The serial's fifth victim was the daughter of Dana Guerin, the rape victim Douglas Belanger had berated. The connection was sickening, but undeniable.

_Douglas Belanger is the killer._

Grissom jumped as his cellphone rang, piercing the expectant silence. Fumbling in his pocket, he yanked out the phone and answered, "Grissom."

"Hey Gil."

Grissom's thoughts came to a jarring halt at the voice from his cellphone. Immediately his logical side went into damage control overdrive, smoothing his emotions under his professional veneer, reminding him over and over that he had to focus on the case. It was the only way he could keep his sanity.

"Gil?"

"Jim," Grissom replied quickly, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I'm, uh, in a bad area. The lab, you know, it has bad reception."

Brass hesitated, the air heavy with what they left unsaid. "I . . . haven't seen you in a few days," he replied, his voice strangely somber. "Make any headway with the records?"

Grissom nodded, then rolled his eyes at the obviously unseen gesture. "Yeah—I've just found a very good suspect. Douglas Belanger. Fits the profile like a glove, but we've got no current address or driver's license. We'll have to inform Elko P.D."

"Will do," Brass agreed. "Actually, I was calling to tell you that Elko called me a few minutes ago. A young woman was just reported missing."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Last time it took twenty-five days. It's only been, what, a little over two weeks since Jillian Edwards' death? Does this girl fit the profile?"

"Nora Sommers, eighteen, works as a waitress," Brass returned. "Lives in an apartment in Elko by herself. I'm told she was kidnapped from her apartment the night before last, no forced entry, nobody saw anything."

"Call Elko," Grissom replied, jawline tensing resolutely. "Tell them to book three hotel rooms. We're going up."


	17. Chasing the Ghost

**_Author's note_: I apologize vehemently for the long wait for this chapter---I've been distracted by some other things, and been generally slacking on my internet stuff. Have no fear! The story is continuing. Please keep reading and reviewing, and thanks for your support and nice comments! ---Emyn**

* * *

Grissom straightened his sunglasses, kit in hand as he stepped out of his Denali and onto the street. Brilliant afternoon sunlight shone yellow on the dusty pavement and old buildings, filling the air with the scent of hot tar, tempered with a faintly cool breeze from the mountains. He paused by the door, traffic reflecting in his dark lenses as he surveyed the storefronts, apartment buildings, and people walking along the sidewalk—perhaps still unaware that there was a predator among them. 

The vicious killer they were pursuing had walked down that same street, blending in seamlessly, hunting for his victims. Like an invisible dragon or a mimicking virus, his evil was carefully concealed, and he attracted no attention. His chameleon exterior disguised the fang-jawed abyss within, the wolf sniffing out innocent lambs. The thought made Grissom's blood feel thickly cold. His mouth twitched as he wondered if the killer was watching him at that same moment, sizing him up. Maybe he was troubled that they had figured out his next targeted location. More likely, he was laughing.

Frowning, Grissom walked around the SUV and onto the sidewalk, then into the lobby of the Elko Police Department. He waved his ID at the receptionist, then slipped into a decent-sized conference room. Quietly he glanced over the crowd of police officers, to the large projection screen at the front of the room. The sweetly smiling face of Nora Sommers stared back at him, her blonde hair shining in the sunlight of a happier time. Gnawing his lower lip, Grissom slid into a cold metal chair in the back row. Brass stood rigidly beside the projection screen, outlined in the photograph's yellow glow.

"If the killer holds to his usual pattern," Brass stated, his voice ringing in the silent space, "then Nora Sommers has about three days left to live. However, considering that the time he keeps his victims has been getting shorter, it may be even less." He paused, allowing the urgency of their situation to sink in. "Each murder, with its specific, ritualistic pattern of rape and torture, fulfills the killer's fantasies. But the longer he goes without being caught, the more psychologically disturbed he becomes. Fantasies and reality get so entangled that he can no longer tell them apart. This, and his faster pace, makes it more likely that he'll make a mistake and get caught. That is one of the few advantages we have." Brass pressed a button, and Nora's image was replaced by the emotionless face of Douglas Belanger.

Grissom felt a chill claw at his spine at the flat, dark eyes staring back at him.

"In order to find Nora, we must find this man," Brass continued. "His name is Douglas Belanger, and he's our prime suspect. In brief, his psychological profile, personal and work history, and a few more specific clues make us believe strongly that he is the Silver State Strangler. He has no current address under the name Belanger, though we do know he used the alias Robert Greene in a previous incident. He may be using the same alias, or a different one. We don't know." Brass pressed the button again, and the screen switched to a lineup of several images, glowing in a somber grid. "A forensic artist at the Las Vegas Crime Lab has aged Belanger's photograph, adding a few changes, such as a beard or different-colored hair. We'll use these pictures and go to local businesses, hardware stores, restaurants, and so forth, to see if anyone remembers seeing him. The killer locates all three potential victims beforehand, so he would have been here for about two weeks previous to Nora's disappearance, most likely posing as a tourist. We're going to look at hotel records for a single man who checked in two weeks ago, and also show his pictures to the hotel staff. I'll make this very clear," Brass added firmly. "All of this must be done with extreme caution—Belanger has no idea we are looking at him, or that we even know he exists. If he finds out he's a suspect, he may simply kill Nora and vanish. I'll accept no excuses if this information leaks. Understood?"

The police officers nodded somberly, some muttering "Yes sir."

"Good. The third thing to look at may be the most important—real estate records. We know that he keeps his victims for about a week, torturing them the entire time. He couldn't do this in a hotel room or an apartment—he must own property, most likely at the outskirts of town. He must also have property near Vegas and Reno—he couldn't have one location for all of the murders, because they're much too far apart. Naturally, this means he owns property in or near Elko itself. It may have been purchased within the past two years, but possibly before then. Most likely, he used the alias Robert Greene—one man can only have so many fake IDs. We need to search all of those records for anyone by that name, or anyone with his same birthdate. He used his real birthdate for his Robert Green ID, so he probably would use it with other IDs. He sees no reason to use a fake birthdate. Unfortunately for him, that gives us a potential way to find him." Brass shut off the projector and gazed out over the assembled police officers. "This man has killed six women already, and he will _never _stop—not until he's either arrested or dead. I don't think I need to say that this case must be your absolute highest priority."

As Brass finished, the assembled police officers stood uneasily, talking to each other in low tones and slowly leaving the room. Grissom stayed in his seat, his glasses' earpiece resting against his lip, one arm stretched across the back of the chair beside his. His forehead creased pensively as he considered the state of the case. Before, they had felt like they were chasing a phantom, grasping for any piece of evidence that would give their suspect human form. Now their main enemy was time—and still the killer's cunning. Science and sound human logic had brought them to that point, and only solid detective work could ferret out their elusive opponent, and save his innocent victim from death. Grissom's mind stepped back for a moment, gazing beyond their case to the vast struggle it represented—the constant tug-of-war between evil and good. His job kept him looking through a microscope, always close to the evidence, without the luxury of considering broader theories of life or human behavior. Still, the greater purpose always stood behind his practical daily work, reminding him that he was part of something vital. He and his team were warriors, with science as their weapon. As Grissom's mind descended back to their suspect's cold gaze, his jawline tightened, hardened with unflinching resolution.

_We are going to catch you, no matter what._

"Gil."

Grissom glanced up to see Brass standing by his chair, his dark blue eyes solemn. Feeling a strange twinge of something like regret, Grissom slipped on his glasses and stood slowly. "Jim," he nodded in reply, his voice vaguely austere. "Nice job with the briefing."

Brass shrugged with a sigh. "Honestly, I'd feel better if I was working with my LVPD boys. I mean, these cops are okay, but from the looks on their faces I think they're overwhelmed by the whole thing."

Grissom nodded thoughtfully, gazing across the room. "Elko isn't a big city, Jim. It's never had to face a serial killer."

"I know." Brass followed Grissom's gaze over the departing officers, then glanced sideways at him. "So what do you think?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow without looking back. "About what specifically?"

"Do you think we'll find Nora alive? Your gut feeling, I mean."

"I'm not even thinking about it," Grissom replied, jawline tightening. "When I do my work, I move forward with the assumption that I will identify and apprehend the suspect. In this case, I have to assume that will happen in time to save Nora." Forehead creasing slightly at his less than satisfactory answer, Grissom glanced sideways at Brass. "What about you?"

Brass shrugged. "I tend to be realistic to pessimistic, but . . . I really want to get this guy. If we all work hard and Elko cooperates, we should be able to find him soon."

"Then I guess we should get to work." Grissom started to walk away.

"How are you doing, Gil?" Brass asked slowly, his voice low.

Grissom paused and turned to face Brass. He squared his shoulders, lips pressed in a tight firm line. "Fine," he returned coolly, understanding Brass' meaning, then turned again and left the room.

* * *

Deceptively cheerful sunlight filtered dully between the thick green curtains, hanging in an uncertain haze amid the apartment's shadows. Its thick silence was tempered by the neighboring tenants' radio, disembodied female vocals seeping through the dusty walls in a wordless tide. Sara stood just inside the doorway, kit in hand, surveying the scene. Her first glance revealed no sign of a prolonged struggle—only a tipped bottle of soda betrayed a disturbance. She gazed at the congealed puddle of sugary liquid, its dark stain on the cheap linoleum floor reminiscent of old blood. As she watched an ant testing the puddle's edge, her thoughts were drawn to the victim. 

_Was she sitting alone when you took her?_

Sara stepped closer to the couch, picturing the blonde, blue-eyed Nora Sommers staring across her lifeless apartment, dreaming of a future beyond the dust of an overgrown cow-town.

_Was she worrying about her dead-end life? Problems with her boyfriend, maybe? Any everyday issue that was nothing compared to the devastation you cause?_

Her lips pursed tightly together as anger whispered coldly along her spine.

_So now, because your mom was mean or you got picked on or for no reason at all except the joy you find in death, you've got an innocent young woman in hell._

At that moment, something on the sofa caught Sara's eye, and she put her kit on the coffee table and leaned down to look at it. On the worn brown fabric was a small, darkly spattered mark. Forehead creasing curiously, Sara took out a swab and the small bottle of phenothalyne. Carefully, she swabbed the spot, then squeezed a drop of the clear liquid onto its cotton tip.

The white surface blushed into a brilliant pink.

Sara's lips parted as she straightened, visualizing what had happened. _Nora is sitting on her couch, drinking a soda. The killer rings the doorbell._

Sara half-heard the sound in her mind.

_Nora gets up to open the door, thinking he's just some benign delivery guy or something. He comes in, the door closes, and he tries to chloroform her._

Sara's tongue absently traced the edge of her lip as the smell and taste of the chloroform-laced cloth returned to her. Her pulse quickened.

_But instead of succumbing immediately, Nora gets out of his grasp. She runs back toward the sofa, to . . ._

Sara's gaze flicked past the sofa to the telephone on the wall in the nearby kitchen. She flinched as the young woman's screams floated into her mind.

_Nora tries to reach the phone, to call for help. He catches up to her by the sofa, and pushes her down, trying to overpower her. Her soda is knocked from the end table. She scratches him somehow, leaving a trace of his blood on the side of the couch._

Sara moved closer, examining the fabric near the top of the sofa. She could barely make out a fine spatter pattern against the brown material.

_Enraged, the killer hits her in the face, causing a small amount of bleeding—from her nose, probably. He gets on top of her, holding her down as he presses the chloroform cloth over her mouth and nose._

A cold wave rushed up the back of Sara's neck as she remembered the hatred in those flat, dark eyes. She could hear the young woman's cries slowly fade, and the killer's cold silence as she fell unconscious.

"_Looks like it's just you and me now."_

Her hand whipped to her gun, every muscle straining in a visceral response to the memory of that icy voice. At that moment, her cellphone rang. Slightly startled, Sara dropped her hand from her gun's grip and pulled out her phone. "Hello?"

"Hey Sara, it's just me."

"Hey you," Sara sighed with relief at Brass' warm voice, smiling with faint embarrassment at her sudden fear. "Are you guys done with the briefing?"

"Yeah," Brass replied with a slight sigh. "I'm hoping some of it sunk in. These Elko cops are something else. They're all either overwhelmed by the situation, or territorial."

"Well, you know cops are possessive of their jurisdiction," Sara returned as she walked to the window and leaned against the casing. "Hopefully they'll get through it and do what has to be done."

"Hopefully." Brass paused, sighing. "I don't know, Sara. I want to believe that we'll find Nora alive, but this guy . . . If we don't find her, she'll die, but I'm afraid if we get too close he'll kill her anyway."

"Maybe," Sara admitted. "Still, I feel like we're so close now. We're almost sure of his identity. Even if we're too late for Nora, we're on his trail. We're going to get him soon."

"I think we will," Brass agreed. "I just talked to Grissom, too—he's determined to get this guy before he murders Nora."

Sara nodded, strangely relieved. "I'm glad he's focused on the case again. You know, I haven't really seen him since we got up here," she added quietly. "How is he?"

"He's Grissom," Brass returned wryly. "He's okay with stuff relating to the case, but personally, he's chilly."

"That's normal," Sara half-smiled. "He'll stop sulking eventually."

"I hope so. By the way, got anything at the apartment?"

"Yeah, actually," she returned, glancing back at the sofa. "Nora managed to scratch the killer somehow, so I've got bloodstains. If they match the blood from, ah, from his gunshot wound—"

"Then we'll have physical evidence to link him to the murders," Brass finished, enthusiasm in his voice. "Excellent."

"I think it's appropriate that one of his victims was able to thwart his attempts at leaving no trace," Sara remarked.

"Probably really ticked him off, too."

"Yeah," Sara smiled wryly. Her expression faded rapidly as she looked back out the window. A man was standing by the beaten blue mailbox near the apartment building's front entrance. Even at that distance, Sara noticed his light brown hair and thoughtful, almost scholarly features. She felt cold slice in a razor down her spine as his dark gaze flicked up to the window, then back to the letter he was holding.

"Sara?" Brass asked, sounding slightly worried. "Are you still there?"

"It's him," Sara croaked, pulling back slightly from the window. Saying it filled her with dread, as the ambiguous ghost had suddenly taken shape in front of her. She stared at his harmless-looking form as he slipped the letter into the mailbox's cold metal interior.

Brass understood immediately, his voice suddenly fierce as steel. "Sara, where is he?"

"Outside, putting a letter in the mailbox."

"_Damn _it," Brass cursed under his breath. She could hear his footsteps on the police department's linoleum floor. "Are you sure it's him?"

Sara half-blinked as the man looked back up at Nora's apartment, a vague smile playing across his lips. "I'm sure."

"Sara, don't you move, you hear me? I'll be right there with the special response team. Stay on the line." His voice was commanding, but darkened with concern. "Did he see you?"

"I don't think—he's walking around toward the back of the building," Sara hissed, eyes flashing as the man vanished from her sight. "He's going to get away."

"Give me five minutes," Brass ordered.

Sara heard him lower his phone and start shouting orders at the people around him. She moved to the far left edge of the window, peering around the green curtain, but she could no longer see him. Mind working rapidly, Sara bit her lip until she almost drew blood. Taking a slow, calming breath, every nerve steeled with resolution, she picked up her kit and walked out of the apartment.


	18. Shadow Caught

He stood behind the apartment building, sunlight streaking his brown hair, a battered old Nikon grasped comfortably in his long fingers. His keenly dark eyes shone as he tilted his head for a better view of the building's dirty flank, angular features hidden as he peered through the camera's viewfinder. A blink matched the shutter's brisk snap. One side of his mouth tilted in an unbalanced smile as he lowered his camera to advance the film.

At that moment, his gaze flickered to the building's back door as it opened carefully and a young woman walked out, her eyes fixed on the pavement. Frozen like a cautious serpent, he surveyed her through half-lidded eyes, noting her gleaming metal kit and the features that were now familiar to him. One finger vaguely stroked the camera case as he saw the scar on her freckled cheek. She was absorbed in her work, tall frame striding slowly across the pavement. His smile widened with satisfaction at her single-minded oblivion, even as his senses sharpened rapidly at her proximity. Time unfolded in his mind until each second slowed to a narrow eternity of thought and sensation. With precise control, he raised his camera and hit the shutter button.

Her gaze flashed up at him in an instinctual reflex, like a startled doe. From that microscopic first expression, he instantly absorbed the situation and gleaned her mental state. This Sara Sidle, CSI level three, was looking for something the elusive Silver State Strangler may have left in his departure three nights before.

She did not recognize him.

A curving flash of lightning seared his mind in that fraction of a moment. Of course not. The deluded hounds were still chasing some false scent, unaware of the fox sliding sleekly beneath their noses. It irritated him to think that they were so foolish as to leave their weakest member alone and unprotected, even after his earlier warning attack. The disrespect of it was grating. Still, here was a second opportunity. With a swift blink, he smoothed everything beneath a glossy calm surface. "Oh, I'm sorry," he smiled politely. "You made an interesting composition. I hope I haven't interrupted your work."

"Not at all," she smiled back, shaking her head. "I get so absorbed in what I'm doing that sometimes noises startle me."

"I know exactly what you mean," he replied with a wry smile. She had such an uncultured voice, like the edge of unhemmed fabric—yet her smile was true, though laughably naive. He tilted his head, gazing at the gleaming metal kit in her hand. "What's in the shiny suitcase?"

Sara shrugged. "My kit. I'm a crime scene analyst."

A note of pride in the excessive term made the corner of his smile twitch faintly. He never could tolerate such incongruity. "Ah, a scientist. You must be with the officers from Las Vegas, on that murder case—what is it, the Silver State Strangler?" he ventured. It was best to confirm the extent of his opponents' knowledge.

"Yeah," Sara nodded with a weary sigh. "It's a rough case."

"Mmm," he nodded thoughtfully, half-lidded eyes burning as his finger absently traced his camera's strap. Restraining the images wracking his mind, he composed a suitable reply. "You know, I came up here for a vacation—to see Old West towns, and take some photographs. It seems like I picked the wrong time to do it. It's such a shame, really," he added with a sigh, changing quickly into a smile. "But you're going to crack the case, right?"

"Hopefully." She tilted her head with an apologetic smile. "But I can't really discuss it."

"Yes, I know," he smiled back, annoyed by her self-righteousness. "Such a good girl."

Sara's lips pursed in a demure smile, then she glanced at her watch. "I gotta get back to the station," she apologized, shaking her head.

"Of course." His eyelids flashed in a twitching blink. "I'm sure your coworkers wouldn't want you to be late."

Sara smiled and nodded in a polite goodbye, then turned and walked toward the apartment building. Her tightly calm self-control began to fray, throat choking with the desperate instinct to run back inside. Every muscle burning with restrained fear, Sara opened the door, stepped inside, and turned to close it behind her.

The sharp fang of a steel blade stabbed into the gap, grinding in a harsh metallic groan between the door and casing.

A scream caught behind her teeth, Sara threw all her weight against the door, kit sliding to the floor. She struggled to hold it and draw her gun as the knife stuck out beside her, flickering like the darting eyes of a predator scenting blood. With a final sharp cry, she slammed the door closed, hands flying to force the rusty deadbolt into place. Spinning around, Sara backed away from the door and into the apartments' first floor corridor, gun trained on the door in a tight cold line. She froze, poised and alert, her heart's primal rhythm the only noise violating the dim space. After a moment of raw terror, she heard the sudden wail of sirens raging like fire in her blood, followed by smashing and shouting in a voice that filled her with relief.

"_Las Vegas Police!_"

Sara lowered her gun, her breath quickening as she ran toward the front of the apartment building. She nearly collided with Brass as he charged down the corridor with the black-clothed special response officers, gun ready, his face a mask of fury and dread. "Sara!" he gasped, devouring her in a single sweeping glance. "Are you okay?"

"I think he's still in the back," Sara panted quickly, brown eyes hardened with determined focus, knuckles turning white as she gripped his arm. "We can't let him get away."

Dark blue eyes fierce, Brass brushed her cheek with his hand. "Stay put," he ordered gently, then slid past her after the officers, shoulders braced in a strong line.

Sara shifted in a restless instant, then followed him, safely a few steps behind. In a gleaming black tide, the officers surged forward and forced the door open, blazing sunlight crashing into the broken darkness. As they plunged into the alley behind the apartment building, they were met by two other teams and a handful of squad cars, their lights swirling in time to their screaming sirens. At the bull's-eye center of this brilliant hurricane stood the compactly powerful Douglas Belanger, motionless as a storm-battered rock, the knife still gleaming in his lowered hand.

"Drop it now!" Brass roared as he stepped forward, strong grey figure terminating in gaping gunmetal.

Belanger turned slowly to face him, the officers' guns encircling him in a strange shining wreath. Lips curving in a disturbing smile, the knife clattered from his hand to the burning pavement.

"Hands on your head—down on your knees!" Brass commanded.

Darkly keen eyes bright with fathomless hate, Belanger complied. A few of the officers swarmed in around him like black flies around a corpse, handcuffs snapping around his wrists with the finality of a gunshot. The officers yanked Belanger to his feet, and Brass stepped forward, lip curled in disgust, eyes colder than death. They gazed at each other for a moment, minds circling like dueling lions, both sizing up their opponent with a strange satisfaction at finally meeting.

"Captain," Belanger stated quietly, his voice like poisoned velvet.

Brass did not reply, his chin lifting a fraction as his sharp blue gaze flashed in a silent challenge. "I want him waiting for me," he ordered the officers in a low calm voice, ever undercut with steel. Without speaking, the officers nodded and dragged Belanger to a waiting squad car that squealed away once he was secured inside.

Sara walked forward toward Brass, standing beside him and following his gaze after the departing squad car. She glanced back at him silently, her adrenaline-charged breathing slowing as she studied his resolute expression.

"Now comes the fun part," he sighed, still looking down the sunlit street. "I'll have some guys keep searching the records—it could take a long time to come up with anything. With luck, we'll get Belanger to tell us where he's keeping her."

"Without her captor, Nora probably has no food or water at all," Sara finished solemnly.

"Which means we don't have much time."

Sara and Brass turned to see Grissom standing behind them, their reflection caught in his sunglasses. "We've got the killer," he continued grimly, "but that's only the first step."

"Exactly," Brass nodded, squaring his shoulders. "I'm gonna go start on him. Wish me luck." With a nod to Sara, he turned and marched across the bright alley.

Grissom glanced sideways at Sara. "You okay?" he asked, his voice neatly reserved.

"Yeah," Sara nodded, taking a breath. "He, uh, put a letter in the mailbox up front. We should go get it."

Grissom held up his kit, head tilting in a slight nod. Silently they walked to the front of the apartment building, uncomfortable but moving in familiar unison. Sara felt a chill as they stopped by the battered blue mailbox and she glanced up at Nora's window. Leaning down to open the mailbox, Grissom looked at her, still feeling the old sting of fear at how near she had come to danger. Carefully he slipped on his latex gloves and pulled out a letter from the top of the stack. "Addressed to the _Elko Daily Free Press_," Grissom stated with a frown.

Sara looked back at him, her mouth drawn in a serious line. "So he came back to his current victim's apartment to mail a letter to the newspaper," she stated, shaking her head. "That's . . . sick."

"Yeah," Grissom nodded, carefully opening the envelope and pulling out a single crisp sheet of plain white paper. Sara took a step closer as he tilted it so she could read at the same time.

_You've wasted no time in following me up here. The hours of staring at maps have paid off? Not that knowing where I go will help you. You're still so far behind that you have to wait around for a new body. Maybe you two can hit the bars and discuss your little feud over a few beers, that always seems to help things._

_I'm getting sick of dealing with you people. You haven't learned a thing from me or my warnings. Pathetic, really. Do I have to kill your dear Sara Sidle for it to sink in? Do I?_

_You'll find number seven sooner than later. Unfortunately I don't think I can tolerate the stubborn bitch for much longer. You may find a bit more damage than usual._

_It's not easy you know_

_And still she cried, and still the world pursues_

Grissom tilted his head. "This isn't as neat as the others. Look at the missing punctuation, slightly awkward construction in places. He sounds almost frantic."

"Serial killers' burnout," Sara remarked. "His control over his mind is slipping."

"Right," Grissom nodded thoughtfully as he slipped the letter into an evidence bag. "The blending of fantasy and reality. He'll be disordered for a short time, like Ted Bundy when they finally caught him. It won't take him long to get it together now that he's been caught, though."

"That's true," Sara agreed, "but he's a psychopath. He can manipulate and maneuver brilliantly for a few hours under interrogation, but then the rage starts to crack through. If we're determined, we'll be able to break him."

"We need as much from him as we can get," Grissom added. "There's very little physical evidence right now to tie him to the serial murders."

"Nora did injure him," Sara returned. "His blood is on her sofa. Obviously we need to test the DNA, but the pattern tells the story pretty clearly."

"Good," Grissom exhaled with a nod. "We need the help." He gazed across the street, brilliant afternoon sun bleeding through his dark lenses to the clear blue eyes beneath. "Well, for a little while, the battle's moved from the world of proof to the world of the mind. We'll see how it goes."


End file.
